


A Shade of Orange

by hazk, RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Psychological Torture, Season/Series 15
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22437616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazk/pseuds/hazk, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: In a moment of absolute idiocy from their equally colorful counterparts, the Blues and Reds had lost everything but their ship and their lives. The underwater lair was gone, and so was Loco's near finished weapon of mass destruction.The Reds and Blues may have taken back their Freelancers, but there is a piece left behind for Temple to work with. Plan B unleashes chaos, and there is an orange soldier pinned in the midst of it all.
Relationships: Dexter Grif & Gene, Dexter Grif & Mark Temple, Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Mark Temple & Agent Carolina
Comments: 31
Kudos: 94





	1. Target Locked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I was you, I would be pissed. No, scratch that, I am fucking pissed! We've been screwed over by the people we once signed up to die for; the last thing any of us needs is to be _left behind by the ones we_ -!"

Red Team actually had an official strategy for unexpected ambushes. It mostly consisted of Grif being the decoy to lure the enemies into sight, and then Sarge insulting them until they would retreat in shame.

During Chorus, Grif had quickly learned that the old Red Team strategy wouldn’t get him far, not that it was much of a surprise - funny dances and mockery didn’t work that well against bullets and grenades. The constant presence of mortal danger had done wonders for his improvisation skills, and Grif knew that in order to survive, it’s instincts over logic. Act fast and get lucky.

Habits are hard to break, Grif knew this better than anyone, and when the first missile hit the base, Grif listened to his instincts through the deafening noise as the roof began to cave in.

He grabbed Simmons’ hand and ran outside where the perfect holiday paradise was crumbling down. 

“Who the hell have we pissed off now?” he yelled, but none of his friends answered him. The two jets didn’t grace him with an answer, either. They were circling around the island, turning around as they reached the mountains. That gave him some seconds to prepare for their attack, to either hide or set up a perimeter or whatever order Sarge would give him. 

Personally, Grif would prefer to get behind cover, and so he did, dragging Simmons with him. “Guys?!” he called out and the only answer was his own racing heartbeat.

This was the opposite of what was supposed to happen. Iris was meant to be peaceful - Kimball had promised them so. And Grif had clung to this promise when that fantasy world of a calm future had collapsed around him.

He still remembered that fluttering sensation in his chest - hope, he supposed - at the sight of the two apartment buildings, just waiting for them to move in and _live_ in peace. Now that had been replaced with the sight of a broken base that’d been a mess even before the missile had hit its mark. 

“Uhm, can we get Carolina out here ‘cause I think we’re in big, big trouble?” Grif could settle with Wash, really, or even Tucker. Just someone who knew how to stop the jets that were rapidly approaching him from above.

But the Freelancers had been gone for some time, Grif remembered. They didn’t belong here. They could handle themselves just fine - they’d done so before. Except, it’d never been like this, had it?

Grif looked up just in time to see Tucker and Caboose go flying off the edge of the base as the slab of concrete exploded. The sheer panic ran through his body like an electric jolt, but Grif never lost his grip on Simmons as he pressed them both against the boulder that had become his one and only savior. 

They were fine. This was fine. They had survived worse, even though Grif was still trying to figure out what was going on. They hadn’t- They didn’t deserve this. He was sure of that: this wasn’t a war. This was the exact opposite of that, and Grif had craved for it, longing for it with his entire being. And he’d earned it. Right?

“Sarge?” Grif called out. No one answered him. “Donut?” If anyone were to survive, it’d be that bastard. Sarge, too. Well, pretty much all of them could be considered immortal at this point, considering how much shit they had gone through.

Then the Warthog blew up, and Grif’s hopes were destroyed with it, exploding into smithereens that fell to rest upon the surface of Iris.

He leaped then, dragging Simmons with him because he was that selfish - he didn’t want to go alone, the field too open in front of him, but he knew that when Sarge prepared for an attack, he’d go for the Warthog. It was a Red thing - Red Instincts, as Sarge would call them. Jump in the Warthog, turn on the music, kick some ass.

They were fine, Grif told himself as he ran. Of course, they were fine. This was fine - this was Iris. He just needed to do over, to regain the control-

The world disappeared in front of him, replaced by a bright flash as the line of fire cut the field in half, blasting away dirt and grass. The force sent Grif flying backward, knocking the air out of his bruised lungs when he finally made contact with the ground again. Through it all, he’d made sure to hug Simmons tightly so they didn’t lose each other in the fall. 

Grif’s ears were ringing, vision swimming. His left knee was burning so fiercely, and he looked down to study the leg stretched out in front of him, twisted into an angle he found painful just from staring at it.

Above him, one of the jets had turned around, the nose of the spacecraft pointing directly at him as it locked on its target.

Grif closed his eyes. 

This wasn’t real.

His eyes opened, and Grif saw that his hands were holding a volleyball, carefully decorated with a maroon visor. He inhaled sharply at the realization.

He was alone.

Numbly, Grif tilted his head backward, just in time to see the jet light up, falling like a shooting star until it disappeared into the waves.

The new spaceship had appeared silently, surprising Grif’s attackers as much as himself. His confusion only grew as it landed next to the burning base. It only stayed on the ground long enough for a cobalt soldier to exit it. 

“Church,” Grif said and hugged the maroon volleyball tighter.

It was unexpected, to say the least. Sure, Church had been there, briefly, but Grif had never fetched that pump for him…

This was spinning out of Grif’s control faster than his crazed thoughts could keep up.

The unknown spaceship took off, heading for the one remaining jet that had made a sudden turn when his companion had been shot down.

Grif was still on the ground. Every movement had the pain in his leg flare up, so he kept still, rubbing one thumb against the leather of the volleyball as he watched the scene play out in front of him.

The enemy jet took a hit to its side, tilting by the impact. Smoke rose from it, marking its slow descent towards the field where the cobalt soldier was standing, raising his rifle.

He fired a shot.

And missed.

And missed, and missed, and missed once again.

“Definitely Church,” Grif told Si- himself. His heart beat faster, excitement mixing with the adrenaline. If Church was here, that meant the others had completed their mission - and that in turn had to mean that they were coming home.

Church fired the final shot that hit its target, pilot collapsing inside the cockpit, dead before the jet exploded against the ground.

Grif could not smell the smoke, but the base was still burning behind the wreckage. The sky was already turning darker.

The sight of his home in flames had Grif lost in thoughts, and he jerked in surprise - his knee screaming in disagreement - when cobalt boots stopped in front of him.

“Are you okay?”

That wasn’t Church. 

Sure, they hadn’t been on the same team, but Grif knew the asshole well enough to know that sure as hell wasn’t his voice.

Reality cracked around Grif, splitting his skull with a ringing headache. This wasn’t- He didn’t understand.

“You’re not Church,” Grif said. He was clutching the volleyball to the point where he feared it might pop. “You’re still cobalt, though. It’s weird, isn’t it, how you’re named after a rock but I’m named after a fruit. Church was cobalt until he wasn’t, and then he became super small and floaty, but you’re not. You’re-”

“We need to get the fuck out of here before reinforcements show up. Can you walk? That leg looks _urgh_.”

Grif could hear the guy wince on his behalf, and the pain in his knee somehow grew stronger at this acknowledgment. The man then offered him a hand and Grif stared at it, unwilling to let go of the volleyball. 

“It isn’t _safe_ ,” the man insisted and, tentatively, Grif placed the ball under one arm so he could be pulled up by his free hand. The moment he was actually standing up, he had to bite his lip to deal with the pain.

“Where’s Church? And the guys? Have you seen the guys? I can’t leave the guys behind, I can’t-” Grif cut himself off as the spaceship landed nearby. The wind from the engines almost made him fall over, but the cobalt soldier let him lean heavily against him for support. 

“I just gotta find them. Caboose wouldn’t go without Freckles, and Freckles - He’s in the base. He ran out of battery forever ago, didn’t even beep when I kicked him, and I tried leaving him in the sunlight but I don’t think Chorus uses renewable energy yet; that sucks-”

The stranger took a step towards the ship, gently nudging Grif along.

“I just gotta pick them up and then we can go. Together. We go together. I’ll be fast, super fast, in and out before you can even say-”

The base collapsed, curving inwards on the middle, the flames reaching even higher.

“Shit,” Grif said, shoulders slumping.

A blue visor tilted down towards him, and the hands holding him up gave him a comforting squeeze. Underneath his armor, Grif shivered at the touch. 

“You’re real,” Grif said, feeling confused more than anything.

“I sure am!”

* * *

“Well, you got a big bump on your head, but as long as you remember your own name, you should be fine.” The cobalt soldier suddenly froze, holding the medkit. “You _do_ remember your own name, right?”

“Dexter Grif,” said man answered with a frown. It looked like he was still getting used to the pressure of the bandages wrapped around his head.

“Mark Temple.” 

He sent Grif a smile that wasn’t truly returned, but Temple told himself not to feel offended. Grif looked tired more than angry, and the confusion - not to mention the lingering madness - was still clouding his eyes.

“Here,” Temple said, handing him a glass of water and some painkillers. “You might want to gulp these down before I start working on your leg.”

Grif’s eyes darted towards the glass, then down at the volleyball his hands were busy caressing. 

“I can hold the thing for you,” Temple offered, choking back his disdain.

Shaking his head, Grif instead placed the ball in his lap. He did, however, follow Temple's suggestion and took the pills - a good sign, truly - before laying back down. 

When Grif had been brought to the spacecraft's small sickbay to get his injuries treated, Temple had made sure to remove his own helmet first as a symbol of trust.

With Grif having now slipped out of his armor, Temple wouldn’t go as far as to call him ugly, but no one could claim that weeks of isolation did wonders for your appearance. On top of that came the scars, the skin grafts. Grif looked like someone who _should_ be dead but wasn’t.

Small pieces of Biff could be found in Grif’s face if Temple searched for long enough.

But for now, he had to focus on Grif’s leg rather than his face. The knee was painfully swollen, and both Grif and Temple winced at the sight of it. It would keep him out of commission for a week, at least. Not that this bothered Temple in the slightest. 

Temple kneeled down to treat the injury with careful hands, bandages and a splint waiting on a nearby metal table.

“Temple? That’s- that’s really weird. Are your parents religious? Do you think Church’s parents were? Wait, he didn’t really have any, but still, in theory. Do you think there’s someone out there named Cathedral? Why are you looking like Church? Why is your name like his? Are you a Buddhist-?”

“Maybe one more pill,” Temple suggested as Grif’s rambling grew faster and faster.

Grif swallowed another painkiller, and Temple never halted his work on the knee. He tightened the bandages, feeling Grif twitch, but ever so slowly the orange soldier’s breathing began to grow steady.

Temple had expected to find him in a bad state. One would have to be an _idiot_ not to see what damage the isolation could cause. But it gave him more to work with, small pieces that needed to be put back together.

Some injuries could be healed. Others could not.

But despite his cursed role as the one orange soldier in a bunch of idiots, Grif was still alive.

"You're not - who are you? She said, Dylan said, the attacks, the doubles, where are my-?" Grif's voice died out again and Temple waited for him catch his breath. 

"Ah. I get why you would be confused, it's alright," Temple said and reached for more bandages. "There are a lot of fake news going around, and what you must have been told… In my opinion, the reporter - Andrews? You've met her, then? - she wasn't at the top of her game… I'm sure you would agree."

The medication was really beginning to affect him now and Grif said nothing in reply. Though, he did try to sit up despite the pain , which Temple prevented by gently pushing him back.

"We are not your clones or trying to pretend that we are: We are sim troopers, the same as you. You know how it was, with the opposing colors, our own Gulch, our 'war' and our losses…" 

"Huh."

Taking that to mean Grif had managed to somewhat follow him so far, Temple secured the splint and looked up at him. Grif’s dazed attention on him, Temple continued:

"Before, we were the playthings of Project Freelancer and now, the moment we thought it was over, the masters are back to blame us for their own fucking messes. That's the story. We are not the enemy here."

"The enemy…? Oh, Tucker and Caboose, I saw them go flyi- no. Not… real…" A look of further confusion crossed over Grif’s face. 

Temple offered him a tight smile. "The attack itself was very real, and you are the one who almost got…" He looked down at the splint and the bandages around Grif’s head. "Well." 

Absentmindedly, Temple began to fold the leftover bandages back in their casing. Grif’s fingers twitched, following the movement. 

"I… I should start with the assholes we just saved you from," Temple said. "The UNSC. The military you enlisted in, the same one who sold all of our lives and souls to Project Freelancer. Well. Apparently, they weren't happy with simply screwing us over. Now, they are going around, to kill us off for good. Taking down everyone once involved with the project."

"But, no, that makes no sense… Why would they do that?" Grif asked, his brow furrowed. Temple sighed, his own pinched expression proof that he had spent forever on figuring that one out, only to get no closer to an answer. 

"Wish I could tell you. I don't know if it's some bureaucrat trying to sweep us all under the rug before running for office, when all we've been able to figure out so far is that this is really happening. We are in danger, all of us, and we know the enemy is the UNSC. Which means, we can't expect anyone to help us but each other."

"How did you find me? No, wait, how did they? No one knows about Iris, us, we retired, you know, Kimball swore we were done, pinky-promise and everything, how would they have-?" 

"There… is a reason. The UNSC didn't know about Iris, and us heading for you might have had a part in how they found you just before we did. They have been trying to track us down for months now, and the sudden appearance and movements of… your own team must have helped them to zone in on the area."

Grif’s eyes lit up. 

"The others, oh, so have you seen the guys?" Grif asked, lifting himself upwards again as the worry hit him. "They, they went to look for… Did you see them? Did you talk to them? Did you touch him?" Grif's hold on the maroon volleyball in his arms tightened. 

Temple closed his eyes. "I… I don't know how to tell you this, but… If you asked me, I would always rather hear the truth and be done with it than continue living a lie."

Temple's jaw set and he opened his eyes, determined yet apologetic in the way he held Grif’s gaze. 

"I saw them. The Reds and Blues, _your so-called 'friends'_. We warned them about these attacks. We told them that the UNSC is hunting down them, us, and everyone connected to the dark past that are the simulation troopers of Project Freelancer. And then we asked if there were more of them, someone else for us to warn and help out."

For a moment, Grif looked elated, and he opened his mouth to say as much. He had not yet picked up on the point that was being made, but Temple was prepared to make it clear:

"I know we are not who you wanted to see, but thank god they told us where you were before they took off. If they hadn't, or if we had been too late to get to you..."

Temple paused, saw the realization settle in as Grif slowly shut his mouth. He no longer looked entirely confused, and more like an idea - or rather, a fact - was about to punch him in the gut. 

"Shit, I'm so sorry," Temple said, backing away a little. "They… They couldn't risk coming here, not when they had just found out something about… uh… Church, was it? So yeah… They booked it, to get to him." 

Temple cursed, his voice dripping with spite but not aimed towards Grif:

"If I was you, I would be pissed. No, scratch that, I am fucking pissed! We've been screwed over by the people we once signed up to die for; the last thing any of us needs is to be _left behind by the ones we_ -!" 

Grif pulled back and his eyes shut tight, the volleyball squished in his arms. Temple stared. 

"Oh… Um. I am… I really am sorry. Sorry. Fuck, yeah, this has to be a lot to take in and you… You need rest and time to take all of this in," he said, getting up on his feet and backing away. "And you will have questions, which I am more than happy to answer, but you should get some rest first, yeah? We will have time, later."

Grif said nothing, didn't move, and Temple turned awkwardly towards the door. "The room is yours. Take your time. There will be someone outside if you need anything, and, uh… I will be seeing you." 

Just as he was about to slip through the door, Temple paused to glance back at Grif. He smiled at his newest recruit. 

"Oh yeah. I should get you something to eat before I go - that alright with you?"

* * *

"Fucking hell…" Temple dropped down in his seat and leaned back, fingers curling around the armrest in a mockery of relaxation. "The last one. Pretty sure he actually is the last one, the last sim trooper I got to give the speech to. He better be."

A blue visor stared at him in attention, an air of tension building up in the small boardroom of their spacecraft. Surge cleared his throat. 

"Permission to speak freely, sir."

It wasn't a question and Temple had nothing to say to it. He let go of the armrest, only to have his hands curl into fists. 

Watching him, Surge knew he was next on the line to get smacked if he did not keep his mouth shut. Which he was not about to do. 

The Blues and Reds were no happier with their situation than Temple was, but it was their leading figure who was making the least sense with the way he had reacted to their little setback. Not that they had ever really been on the same page with their plans, but this was the first time in ages they had no plan to begin with. At least, not one anyone but Temple could see. 

"We took a huge risk to bait the UNSC to follow us to him, and you haven't told us why. What do we need him for? Sir."

Temple stared at the wall and didn't question the uncharacteristic bite in his underling's tone. Time and a place; he still knew how to work them, to get them back in line. 

"Nothing's changed. We start at the beginning, we know how it works. It'll be quick, this time. Set the course for the closest colony."

"Yes, sir!" Surge was pleased to hear the war was not over for them. "But why the-" 

"One way or another," Temple said, his voice even although Surge could hear his gloves creak as his hold tightened further, "we are taking them out. All of them. _That_ is what we need _him_ for."

"Ah, a strategy, an ace up our sleeve-" 

"Yes," Temple snapped and turned his eyes at Surge. "Now, make like a tree and _go_ _do your fucking job."_

Surge did, humming under his breath as he left Temple to fume in his lonesome. 

They were not done yet, despite their original plan having gone to shit in seconds. 

In a moment of absolute idiocy from their equally colorful counterparts, the Blues and Reds had lost everything but their ship and their lives. The underwater lair was gone, and so was Loco's near finished weapon of mass destruction - not to forget Temple's rotting trophies of victory. 

Worse yet, the most important prey had been released before he could have exacted his revenge on her. And because of that, for the first time since the Desert Gulch days when it had all first gone to hell for him, he was the one with a Freelancer-shaped target on his back - and very few advantages to trip them up with. 

In summary, Temple's dream to take down his adversaries would have to be started over from scratch. And today, he had acquired the first piece necessary for this reformation. 

To start with, if Temple had learned anything from the many simulation troopers he had since invited to join his cause, a willing meat shield is the only ally worth your time. You only need to know just the trick to butter them up for it. 

Thankfully, the Reds and Blues had made this one an easy target. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three years ago, when s15 aired, we both got obsessed with what we called the Blue Visor Theory, wherein Temple would be the one to return to Iris to find Grif. Years later, Hazk came to Denmark to visit Ria, and during our holiday, we decided this was the opportunity to actually write the idea that has been in our minds for so long. 
> 
> We got all the chapters planned out, and we are so excited to show you everything - and you guys need to appreciate the fact that Hazk wrote their parts on their phone as they are stuck in Ria's apartment where only one laptop exists.
> 
> We hope you are as excited for this as we are.


	2. A Shipload of Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We could be considered twice the usual amount of idiocy you’re used to. But hopefully it’ll make you feel like home.”

The chair creaked. Grif listened to the whine that followed every thump and he let the noise ground him. One would expect a spaceship to have a powered wheelchair, but Grif couldn’t really complain when Temple was pushing him around without even commenting on the effort it took. 

All to spare Grif the struggle.

“I don’t even think we had a wheelchair!” Grif said as he was pushed down the narrow hallway of the ship. “And if we did, Sarge would probably take the wheels and put them on Lopez or something, and we’d just be stuck with a sad old chair that isn’t even soft or wheeley.”

Temple was doing a remarkable job of keeping his breathing steady while pushing Grif. “Then what would you guys do if someone broke a leg? Or two?”

“Slap some bandaid on it, probably. Oh, and spray with orange juice. Doc was all about the organic stuff.” 

“Doc, huh.” A strained noise left Temple’s mouth. “Wait, what about when _that_ -” a hand appeared in front of Grif’s face, gesturing towards it - “happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Eh, I almost died, then Simmons had some spare parts and, I don’t know, Sarge had enough empathy to stuff them in me, I guess? I think there was a hacksaw involved, maybe an ice cream scooper. I’d rather just have the ice cream, to be honest. But I lived, and I woke up on a table, and so did Simmons, and we just sorta stayed there until it didn’t hurt that much. No wheelchair. Oh, and Simmons became a cyborg. I just got scars.”

A beat passed.

“Weeeeeeell,” Temple said to break the silence. “You’ve seen our sickbay. This is the sleeping quarters, armory, toilets-”

Grif’s eyes drifted towards the one door Temple hadn’t pointed at. “What’s that?”

“Laundry room,” Temple said briefly. He pushed the wheelchair through the final doorway. “And here is the kitchen slash mess hall. The others are so excited to properly meet you - you were a bit out of it yesterday…”

Grif looked down to stare into the tinfoil visor on the volleyball. It had become crinkled, Grif realized, and he rubbed a thumb against it in the hopes of smoothing it out. When he looked up, his vision was filled with colorful soldiers.

“It’s a familiar sight, I guess,” Temple said, letting go of the chair to move in front of him, joining the row of sim troopers. Unlike the others, Temple did not wear a helmet, revealing his own pale face. “Having met your, well, friends, I can say we do have our similarities. But it is the differences that matter.” 

Five sets of blue visors were staring directly at Grif. The color was the only difference so far, really. 

“Helloo!” A pink soldier waved at him.

The volleyball’s leather creaked under Grif’s grip.

Temple’s smile somehow grew larger as he gestured towards the group. “You can probably guess which is which, but let’s take it from left to right: This is Buckey.”

The aqua soldier took a stance, flexing his biceps. “Yo.” 

Temple’s hand fell towards the remaining blue soldier. “And Loco.”

“Hello! You are very orange!” He was waving with a screwdriver in his hand.

The loud voice almost had Grif flinching. It sounded so much like Caboose - this Loco was even better at the Caboose voice than Grif had been during his pretend play.

With a strange stiffness in his steps, Temple moved so he could put a hand on Loco’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Loco is actually very, very, _very_ busy working with - well, this ship isn’t what it used to be, and it needs resourceful hands to keep it going. So you probably won’t get to see much of him as he needs to get going. Right now. Before we all crash and fucking die. Right, Loco?”

The blue helmet bobbed up and down like the head of a string puppet. “Yes. Very busy. Has-has anyone seen my screwdriver?”

“In your hand, idiot,” Buckey grumbled.

“Ah, yes. Must be sleep-deprivation. Or hyperopia.” Loco raised his hand again before leaving the room with quick steps. “Bye, Biff.”

“Grif. It’s Grif! With one F. We went over this, Loco.” The blue soldier was already out of hearing range, and Temple could do nothing but sigh. “Anyhoo... We have the Reds, too.”

Something tightened inside Grif’s chest. 

“Cronut.”

It was the pink soldier’s turn to wave again. “So delighted to make your acquaintance!”

“Surge.”

The man, unsurprisingly, just huffed.

“And Gene.”

Grif stared at the maroon soldier until it hurt. Logically, he should have been prepared for this. It made sense for the team - the team that looked _exactly_ like his old team - to have someone to fill out Simmons’ role.

But logic seems to have escaped Grif’s mind the moment the insanity slipped in.

The maroon soldier didn’t wave. He didn’t say anything, either.

Much like the volleyball...

But this was real. Grif pinched his wrist to be sure.

“Gene doesn’t really talk,” Temple stepped in to explain. “Right, Gene?”

The silence, inevitably, grew awkward.

It looked so wrong, so out of place. A blue visor against maroon….

Temple clapped his hands, and Grif jolted in surprise. “Oh! And we shouldn’t forget Lorenzo!” Temple said, raising his voice for the next sentence. “Come say hi!”

In a flash, a robot appeared in the doorway.

Grif’s heart skipped a beat, words escaping through his mouth in their eagerness. He had been quiet for so long now, a new record broken. “¡Un robot! ¿Como Lopez? Hola mi amigo robot! Finalmente, puedo usar mi español para algo más que una broma rápida, y será relevante para la trama-!”

The robot didn’t answer him.

Instead, Buckey let out a sharp laugh and said, “Oh my god, he’s trying to speak Spanish to him. That’s so sad. Shelly, play Despacito.”

Temple, with his soft expression revealed, at least seemed apologetic. “Uhm, Lorenzo is in fact Italian. I hope that isn’t too much of a disappointment.”

“It’s uh- It’s- I, uh.” The words died at the tip of Grif’s tongue. It had become too numb, too overwhelmed.

Unconsciously, he traced circles in the tinfoil visor.

“Your head really must be sore, huh,” Cronut said with a smile in his voice. “I can see the bulge under those bandages.”

In a swift movement, Temple had moved to stand behind Grif’s wheelchair, putting a hand on his shoulder. “This is Grif as you all well know. We’re so glad to finally meet you. We, uh, changed our visors as I’m sure you’ve noticed. It was originally to help distinguish ourselves from the team you’re from. But for now, we thought it’d reduce the confusion.”

Grif couldn’t tell whether it helped or not. Telling them apart was one thing - the confusion regarding the whole situation was another. 

Lost in those thoughts, Grif had nothing to say. Temple must have grown impatient with the silence as he coughed and said, “Maybe you want to tell us a bit about yourself?”

But Grif wasn’t important. He himself knew that better than anyone.

“Is there another me?” Grif asked instead. “Ooh, is he called Grif with two F’s?”

Tension filled the room - half of the soldiers shifted while the other half turned their helmets away.

“No. We’ve never had one,” Temple said behind Grif, voice perfectly steady. “But now we do!”

Surge cackled; a familiar sound. “Welcome to the team, rookie.”

“Hah, I doubt you can call him a rookie, Surge!” Temple’s hands moved upwards, quickly adjusting the bandages around Grif’s head. “You know what he’s done… He might kick your ass, if it weren’t for his injuries.”

“Right,” Grif said, tone so dry that his lips almost cracked. “The chair is holding me back.”

Temple was in front of the chair again so that Grif could see how he gestured towards the volleyball resting in his lap. “And who is this?” Temple asked.

Grif thought Temple’s smile was meant to friendly, but he wasn’t sure. So he said nothing, instinctively curling himself around the ball.

“I don’t think it can talk,” Cronut said carefully.

“Hah,” Buckey snickered. “Just like Gene then.”

All eyes slash visors turned towards the maroon soldier who was still standing neatly in the row. If it wasn’t for the rising and falling of his shoulders, he might as well have been a statue.

Gene’s stare, through the blue visor, was directed at Grif.

“You’ll get to know them all better,” Temple promised the man in the wheelchair. “But this ship is running on a very tight schedule, and I’d love to not die in a terrible spaceship crash, so we all need to get back to our posts, people.”

At his words, the group seemed to come to life, shifting before they all headed for the nearest exit.

“I will see you later,” Cronut said as he walked past Grif. “Nurse Cronut belongs in the sickbay, after all. No reason for you to go all lonely and gloomy in there by yourself.”

“Great,” Grif said and even he could hear how it came out strained. There was no strength left in him to lie.

When the group was gone, Grif and Temple were left alone. The latter moved to stand in the middle of the room and ran a hand down his face before looking at Grif.

“Well, that went well! As you can see, we’re a colorful bunch, but that was to be expected!”

Grif’s thoughts were like ants, crawling back to that one sweet, forbidden topic. Maroon, oh so maroon. “Why isn’t Simmons- no, volleyball- _no_ , your Simmons-”

“Gene,” Temple finished for him.

“Yeah.” Grif nodded. The name wasn’t the important part. “Why is he quiet? I _hate_ quiet. I didn’t before, but I sure do now, and Simmons, he wasn’t quiet at all! He’d complain and say ‘Yes, sir, yes!’ and he’d tell you all about his blueprints and he’d laugh when you made a really good joke, and his laugh is, it is so good, makes you feel all warm inside-”

“Grif.” The sudden sharp mention of his name had Grif looking up at him. Temple’s smile returned albeit smaller than before. “How’s your head?” he asked.

Grif licked his lip, wondering if this was an implicit offer about more painkillers. “Better,” he finally replied.

“I get it’s a lot to take in. We could be considered twice the usual amount of idiocy you’re used to. But hopefully it’ll make you feel like home.” Temple nodded towards his bandages, eyes softening. “I’m afraid I have some duties I must attend to, I should take you back so you can get some more rest. Cronut will be there to make sure you don’t feel like we just left you to twiddle your thumbs in the corner somewhere, and… No. Actually. There are some things we should probably discuss first.”

Temple looked around the room and pulled out a chair so that he could sit by Grif as they talked. He then picked up a protein bar from the table and offered it to Grif. 

"I've read the papers. We all have. Hell, I doubt there's anyone left in the known universe who hasn't heard how the Reds and Blues brought good old Project Freelancer to justice!" Temple said, his face quickly clouding over whatever excitement the idea had once given him. "If only the other end of the problem hadn't been left undealt with…" 

Temple tapped a finger against his knee as he reminisced. 

"When we first learned of us simulation troopers being hunted down without any official sources reporting on it… It would have been so easy to give up hope. We all thought that the UNSC is too big and powerful for us to fight back, but then we remembered you guys! You were just like us once, and still you did it. You won… And that gave us the strength to keep going."

Grif had heard that one before, on Chorus. This time, though, he could watch Temple think back on his belief in them and see him relive the way it had then shattered. 

Temple caught Grif looking at him and his expression cleared. 

"I do hate to ruin the mood again," Temple said and did sound very apologetic about it, too, "but I just have to say it: We looked up to you guys. Your team were our heroes and that is why, when we finally met the rest of them… We were so excited to have them by our side. We thought that, with their skills, we would kick the UNSC's ass and then some, no problem. And then they walked away on us."

Grif’s breathing sped up and his eyes glazed over, which was followed by a tired sigh by Temple. A wave of emotion crossed over Temple's face, flashing from pain to anger before settling into numb acceptance. 

"That fucking stung… And it may have made some of us weary of new recruits, which I also apologize for. They'll get over it," Temple said before frowning. "I feel I have no right to complain to you about your Reds and Blues, though… I mean, we told them you were in danger and still they… Yeah…" 

Temple shook his head and Grif found himself staring down at the blank visor of the volleyball, an echo of insults lost somewhere in the back of his throat. 

"Let's put it this way," Temple continued, seeming to carefully study Grif as he did. "Even if the UNSC had not found you, it looked to me like you didn't have much time left out there. Which they also knew."

Without a pause, Grif’s expression cleared and he pushed to change the subject: 

"So you really, really are the good guys, then? You really are like us back at Valhalla when we had to fight, not that I wanted to, because Blue Team Problems and the Freelancers, they're scary, does the UNSC have guys like that? The UNSC was after us then, too, I think, but Wash first lied about it, but then it turned out to be real. He also shot us, Wash did, by the way. Or he shot Donut, at least. He was a bad guy, but then he wasn’t, and it wasn’t our asses he kicked after that. And then the Chairman let us go and said we were heroes, though then _he_ turned out to be the bad guy, so it sorta makes sense about them being the bad guys again. Man, morals change faster than Blue leadership."

Temple chuckled.

"The way I see it, we are fighting for our lives here and no one can blame us for that bit. So yeah, the UNSC is the enemy and that in turn would make us the good guys. Yup. That's us."

"That's cool, I guess. Neat."

"Sure is. But Grif. We welcome you here because, well… You get that we are being hunted and are in no position to, uh… drop you off any time soon, yeah? Not that we want to kick you off the ship or anything but we're at war, so, in case you… If you want to leave. At some point. Where should we take you?" 

Grif’s mouth opened, but for once no words came out. Simulation troopers were being hunted by the military, he had seen as much, which automatically meant that Earth was off limits. Even if the base hadn't been wiped out, Iris was empty, and Chorus he wouldn’t want to trouble further on his own. 

And then there was Kai…

The last thought to cross Grif’s mind was of Blood Gulch and that was not even worth considering: There was no one he could go to. And he didn’t want to be alone.

With Grif silently staring at him, as he ran through his nonexistent options, Temple seemed to take pity on him with an awkwardly small smile and an offer:

"Well, no matter, we have room and are more than happy to have you join us! And whatever we may hold against the rest of your old team, it doesn't make us think any less of _you_ , I swear."

Of all the things Temple had told him so far, it was this part that made the least sense to Grif. All he could do was stare at him some more. 

In response, Temple's smile grew more confident. "That said… Would you be interested in helping us out? We have a common enemy, after all…" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holiday is over, and Hazk went home, and it's all so sad. We're still working on the fic, though. Like the beloved child of a long distance relationship.


	3. Daniel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know a thing or two about losing people you care about I guess… Wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy."

The fingers clasped around his neck, squeezing gently, digging into sore muscles and slowly working their way downwards.

Grif, against his will, let out a satisfied groan when Cronut’s hands reached a sore spot. He did his best to convince himself the pleasure came from the pampering of his body, still sore from the attack, and not due to the skin hunger.

“We’re going in deep,” Cronut warned him before digging his thumbs into Grif’s shoulder blades.

As he worked on the spine next, Grif was pretty sure he heard something crack, but to his surprise it didn’t hurt. He had to admit this was an improvement over Sarge’s old goodmorning-shotgun-to-the-face routine.

He had resisted Cronut’s offer at first, despite how genuine the other soldier had seemed about the whole thing. Following Temple’s orders, he had stayed by Grif’s bedside the entire week, keeping him company, playing cards and tending to the swollen knee.

Donut had offered massages too, once upon a time in Blood Gulch. Grif had refused back then, naturally. It had been creepy, and he didn’t need Donut that close to him while coming up with new innuendos. Those offers had been easy to reject. Grif hadn’t owed him anything.

But here, with the Blues and Reds, he was surrounded by so many generous offers that it felt rude to say no. Not that Grif had never been rude before in his life (he'd been rather straightforward in his goodbye to the others, hadn’t he?), but the thing was, he couldn’t afford to let these guys hate him.

The Reds and Blues had eventually given up on him.

If these guys did the same thing, Grif would be royally fucked.

So yeah, he would let them spoil him. How could that hurt? Maybe he didn’t deserve nice things, but these people were giving them to him anyway.

“We can give you a happy ending,” Cronut offered and Grif’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t realized that he'd dozed off.

“What?!”

Gloved fingers lingered above a bruise. “I mean, you can stay here,” the pink soldier said. “With us.”

Grif let his reply be muffled by the pillow. It would be so lovely to let the answer be yes without any _buts_ left hanging in the air. But the truth was that it wouldn’t sound all that grateful once you realized it wasn’t like he had a choice on the matter.

The easiest solution was to fall asleep, his body relaxed yet exhausted, and Grif took the way out with a greedy hand. He was barely aware of Cronut leaving the room, the door sliding closed to embrace him in a comfortable darkness.

* * *

While Grif slept, Cronut would whistle as he walked down the narrow hallway of the ship. He remained cheerful even when he spotted Temple being his gloomy self in the darkest shadow. 

The lack of light didn’t exactly help with Temple’s bleak expression. It only seemed to deepen his frown, making him appear older and more exhausted than he had any right to be.

“A smile a day keeps the wrinkles away!”

The scowl remained. “A fist in your face shuts up your mouth,” Temple snapped.

It was nothing unexpected, and Cronut shrugged it off. “Someone’s in a mood,” he said, stretching his smile until his cheeks hurt. “Well, Grif is in a happy mood. Very grateful and talkative.”

Although it was subtle and quick, Cronut caught sight of it anyway; Temple’s left eyebrow being raised ever so slightly. “Oh,” Temple said numbly.

“Unlike someone else I know, he isn’t afraid of sharing his emotions,” Cronut continued fearlessly. “In fact, if you wanted to, I think he’d open up for you without much preparation. Just - go in there, be yourself! The best version of yourself, at least! No one wants to see all your baggage, but I suppose you two have that much in common.”

“I don’t _need_ to talk to him,” Temple said and crossed his arms. He'd always been the defensive type, but that only meant Cronut had learned to deal with it. “He already trusts us! Of course he does - I suppose we should thank the dear Reds and Blues for that. It’s almost too easy, really.”

The tension was practically radiating off the cobalt soldier. Here Cronut could offer him one of his famous massages, but why bother when he already expected rejection, and when the perfect solution was merely on the other side of the wall.

Cronut’s smile may be practiced, but it was genuine nonetheless. “Well, I’d love to argue that your charming nature won him over, too!” Cronut gave Temple’s biceps a light slap and received a glare in return. “What’s the harm? Worst case scenario, you need the talk more than he does.”

“You don’t know me.”

Temple had squared his shoulders, pouting like a child as he turned to walk away from Cronut.

But maybe he knew him better than he thought, Cronut supposed as he watched Temple enter Grif’s room.

* * *

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

But it was too late, and Grif’s mismatched eyes, clouded with sleep, were staring at him. It hit Temple like a pole to the chest every time - the warm brown color, like Biff’s, in a face that didn’t deserve it, and the cold blue that felt ridiculously out of place.

“Huh?” Grif said and yawned. He sat up, the volleyball still on his lap, blinking a couple of times. “Is there- do you need-?”

“Oh, no. No, no. You’re the guest. I just came to ‘hang out’ as one might say.”

“Weird use of quotation marks, but okay.”

“How about a game?” Temple offered with a small smile. He had already spotted Grif’s nervous twitch, and a distraction would keep his hands busy and mind from wandering. “Do you know Yatzy?”

Grif nodded and watched carefully as Temple prepared the game. The gods might not play dice, but Temple would if it meant he’d win.

“Cronut said you were feeling better,” Temple began and took his turn. Nothing too great, but he saved two 4s for the next round. That was the trick of it all; having the patience to slowly and surely get what you need.

“Yeah. I bet I could ditch the chair soon.”

“Wonderful news! Truly!”

At the end of his turn, Temple had managed to get three 4s. It was all he needed; nothing flashy, but it’d do for now.

Temple tightened his jaw when Grif took the dice and got a full house on the first try. 

“Lucky you! I mean, it isn’t Yatzy but look at you go! Are you always this good?”

“Nah. Used to play with my sister and she’d beat my ass every time…”

Grif trailed off then, something painful flashing across his expression right as Temple rolled the dice. Temple got his two 1s, then blinked.

It took a moment for him to take in Grif’s words. Of course he knew _who Kaikaina Grif was_ , but he hadn’t actually expected Grif to be the one to bring her up in conversation. 

Temple tried not to come across as too eager when he slowly said, “Oh… Your sister? This is going to sound a bit weird but, I’ve done some research on you guys and, uh, sorry again, but I… I thought she passed away?”

Another flash as Grif’s expression hardened. It was an unfamiliar look on him and Temple took it as a warning to back off, especially when Grif looked him straight in the eye.

“No. She didn’t,” Grif said and rolled the dice without looking down at them. Temple felt the unusual weight of the stare still locked on him, as if he was being challenged to argue back.

And as far as answers go, Grif’s had been simple yet effective. Temple remembered the time he would have said the very same thing about Biff, no question.

Temple frowned.

Using Grif’s sister to get at him would take a little more finesse then, as it would take way too much effort to meddle with unprepared. On that note, there were always other, trusty angles for him to work with.

“Oh. Alright then. For your sake, I hope you’re right. Yeah, I just, I know a thing or two about losing people you care about I guess… Wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy,” Temple said, his eyes locked on the dice and the small straight Grif had just gotten but been too distracted to notice. 

It wasn’t easy to hold back his laughter at the sight of Grif’s luck, bitter as it may have been: he had no right to be so good at Yatzy of all things. 

Choosing that to be a sign to forget the more literal game, Temple set his sights on the bigger catch. 

The bait had been laid – now to see where it led them.

“You lost someone? Our team lost Church, but… Huh. Or maybe they didn’t if they went to get him back like you said...” 

Although he had almost slipped right back into his own problems, Grif seemed to latch onto the idea of hearing Temple’s stories of grief instead: It was obvious some weight had been lifted off his shoulders at no more mentions of his sister. He didn’t even notice when Temple snatched the dice from him without marking down the points. 

It was Temple’s turn to show off his hurt, setting his jaw and expression as appropriate. 

“I had this… No.” 

Temple leaned back and studied Grif for a second. Pleased by the patience Grif was showing, he then let out a dramatic sigh before getting on with it:

“First off, I don’t know how to talk about any of this, but I think you still deserve a better explanation cause it, he, it’s got a lot to do with why I am here in the first place, alright? And why it’s so fucking important that we win against the UNSC. Because yeah it’s personal, to me, but it’s hard to- to put into words. Why that is.”

Temple was the one rambling now, the words getting stuck part as intended and part because he wasn’t lying for once. He really did struggle getting to his point, and with the subject in general, but that’s exactly why it was so damn effective.

What _Cronut_ didn’t ever need to know about Temple's methods was how he thought genuine human emotion went far if you wanted to gain someone’s everlasting favor. And while Temple had always had difficulties in that field, at least now he had his baggage to throw at people.

And because Grif more than had his own, he now clung to Temple’s every word. 

“Personal? More personal than the whole simulation thing? Who did you lose? I shouldn’t ask, is it rude to ask? You were already gonna tell me tho, so, probably not…” 

In a lapse of concentration Grif seemed to fall into old habits of thinking out loud, which gave Temple a moment longer to work on his response. It was go time.

“His name was Daniel.” 

A pause, as there should be. Temple’s jaw clenched and he searched for just the right version of the speech; something accurate but not too much so. Some lines didn’t need to be crossed. 

“He died in the ‘simulation’, as they called it, but to us it was as real as it gets. Just for calling it that, I’m… I can’t…” Temple cleared his throat, which was followed by another moment of silence. This one wasn’t a part of the play. 

Finally catching on, Grif seemed to grow uncomfortable with the sudden depth and direction the conversation was taking. “Daniel…? First names, uh, that’s…”

Temple closed his eyes. 

All sim troopers had reacted similarly to his sentimentalism, and Temple was no more comfortable with it. As per his plan, he was just glad to know this would be the last time he would have to put up with humanizing himself to these people.

“Yeah, well. Daniel and I had been friends for a while before enlisting. You can probably guess it messed things up pretty bad when I was assigned to Blue team, Daniel to Reds… Fun times.”

Grif’s eyes darted down at the volleyball on his lap and Temple had to take a breath to not let his annoyance show. He had done his best to ignore the ball, but when the subject was _Biff–_

“Our ‘war’ was an utter fuck up, which I know isn’t that unusual,” Temple tried to keep going, though his voice stuttered in a way he hadn’t planned on, “and I’m not claiming that it hurt more to watch my childhood” – wrong, shit, _he wasn’t actually meant to_ _say that_ – “best friend die than it would a, a comrade!” 

Temple had to pry his eyes off the damned volleyball with its stupid, broken visor – more distracted by it than Grif was. “I’m not saying- I’m not trying to, to diminish… other people’s… shit.” 

“That sucks,” Grif offered slowly, when it became clear Temple wasn’t getting another word out just yet. 

Temple’s lips curled into a sour smile, internally screaming. “…Indeed it does,” he said as carefully as he could manage while trying to pretend like he hadn’t almost just lost it. 

All he had to do was stick to the script; easy. 

“And before you ask, no: Daniel wasn’t killed by any of my Blues. But he easily could have! The UNSC and Project Freelancer were counting on all of us sim troopers being killed, I think, before we could realize the war wasn’t real. And before we could tell anyone outside our Gulches the full story.”

They were back on track. Sort of.

“Then how did he, uh, die?” Grif asked, though he had a look that said he didn’t actually want to know. He was just too uncomfortable to keep his mouth shut, only now realizing Temple had long since snatched the dice away from him.

“Freelancers.” 

Grif’s eyes widened: Another simple yet effective answer. Temple sighed. 

“Our simulation outposts were training camps for Project Freelancers so there were no doubt many more casualties like Daniel… Still, why they thought we could offer any valuable lessons for killing machines like those guys, I will never understand.”

Grif gulped but said nothing, obviously thinking back to his time with said Freelancers.

“But they’ve already been dealt with, so now it’s time we focus on the UNSC!” Temple exclaimed before neither one of them could get distracted by thoughts of the Freelancers. “That is… That is my mission. I want to make sure people know what he, Daniel, died for. I want the UNSC to be made responsible for profiting off our lives. I want us to be remembered. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, uh…” Grif said. ”Sounds good?”

“I’m glad you think so.” Temple offered him the tiniest of smiles. Behind that smile, the anger kept building. 

The speeches had been different before the Reds and Blues had _ruined_ _his original plans_ , but that wasn’t all there was to it. Talking to Grif had been way harder than it should have been, he realized. And he had said more than he had ever meant to.

“Thanks, Grif. Really, thank you for listening. You know how it is… You hang out with your team and it gets, well, it’s a lot to take in. So it sort of helps to be able to open up to- to someone… else…”

Temple had tried to come across as cheerful to artificially lighten the mood, but then he had remembered Cronut’s words. He grit his teeth.

He didn’t actually need to, or want to, talk about his problems – _and_ _especially not to Grif._ Any talking he had done so far had only been a part of the plan (never mind the few slip ups)!

And then Grif’s eyes had darted back at the volleyball in his hands. The ball’s tinfoil visor had become wrinkled under the constant touch. 

Seeing it, Temple fought to keep his expression neutral. He could no longer ignore it.

“I’m afraid we don’t have a volleyball court. But I guess you don’t want to be on a beach in the nearest future anyway.” Temple kept his tone light, but when he saw Grif flinch he tried to go for an even more casual tone. “You know, Loco is actually all about recycling! He collects toys and stuff to use for the repairs. If you don’t need it…”

Grif was practically embracing the thing, as if it needed protection from Temple. He wasn’t too far off.

“No,” Grif said slowly. “No, I’ll hold on to it.”

“Quite literally,” Temple said with a short laugh. “That’s fine! No one’s forcing you to do anything you don’t want to!”

Silence fell for a moment, with Temple unwilling to leave the room as if he had lost to Grif. Lost what exactly, he didn’t feel like figuring out. 

“But there’s something to be said for letting go.”

At Temple’s sudden words, Grif eyes snapped back at him. As they stared at each other, just for a brief moment, Grif’s hold on the volleyball loosened. 

It wasn’t enough, and the anger flaring in his gut was near palpable now. Temple stood up.

"I can see it’s very important to you, a memento of sorts. I obviously have my own,” Temple said, keeping his voice low but unable to quite hold his tongue anymore, “but at least I know Daniel cared for me. Can’t exactly say the same to you, now can I? I've heard the way _they_ talk about you."

“Wait, what do you mean?” In either hope or worry, Grif’s hold on the volleyball tightened some more. "What did they–?"

"Nevermind!” Temple immediately waved Grif off and turned his back on him. “I should go, you need to more rest and I have managerial shit to attend to! It’s putting me in a bad mood, and I don’t mean to take it out on you…”

It would take an absolute idiot to not hear the sudden disdain dripping from his voice, but that was alright. Or it would have to be. 

Temple wasn’t quite good enough at acting to keep in _all_ of his anger issues.

And it wasn't Temple who had to worry about the hand that fed him, so why not start making Grif aware of that fact? Something like that should justify his behavior well enough.

Trying not to overthink it, and still finding himself growing even angrier for reasons unknown, Temple marched out of the room. Despite his mood being doubly ruined, he actually did have other business to take care of.

* * *

Although he wasn’t in the right mindset for it, Grif wasn’t the only one Temple had to continue keeping under his thumb.

What that meant for the Blues and Reds was a constant schedule of meetings and heist plans, the attention meant to ensure they wouldn’t have time to think and consider that maybe, just maybe, their plans had already fallen apart.

Temple was beyond determined to recover from their earlier losses with _grace_ _;_ more dangerous than ever before. And for that speedy reconstruction he needed the others to cooperate.

With Loco ordered to work nonstop, using leftover parts from the bomb the Reds and Blues had taken from them, the rest of the crew had met up in the ship’s mess hall. Just in case, the doors had been locked: 

Temple didn’t need Grif to hear where his attention on the UNSC had since been shifted.

"Believe me, the plan still stands: The UNSC’s gonna get what's coming to them, it'll just take a while longer to get back to that! First, we have to focus on the... more imminent issue. We know that the Reds and Blues, and their pet Freelancers, are after me–"

"Us. They are after us,” Buckey corrected with his arms crossed.

"Yes, yes. Point is that _we know it_ , which means we can prepare for them! As long as the Reds and Blues are following us, we can lead them on, build our trap – and ensure they fall for it by taking away the last thing they think they've got going for them: each other.”

Surge hummed in agreement, though Temple had a feeling he wasn’t actually paying any attention. The Red was just happy to know they were still out for blood, which worked well enough.

“If anything,” Temple then added, “Sarge and Tucker really taught me a lesson on how easy it is to get them to choose sides... Their war of Red vs. Blue, it never truly ended, did it? Unlike for us."

Some of the looks he got were more spiteful than the rest. He let it slide for now.

"We'll make them jello in our hands,” Temple went to finish with gusto, “ _and crush them_."

"…I don't think you can crush jello. Maybe just boil them, make a meaty chaud froid? Preetty cruel; do you think it's a step up or down from starvation?" Cronut asked in deep thought. Temple smirked.

Despite himself, he did appreciate Cronut’s enthusiasm in these specific situations. “Up! We’ll only ever aim higher–”

“Gonna be easy, what with the fuck up our last attempt was.” 

All eyes turned to Buckey. 

This time Temple couldn’t stop his expression from slipping into a scowl, which continued to transform into a look even more venomous. It was enough to get Buckey to back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while since our holiday together, and we're still very sad about our separation. But we're back to writing and so excited for what's to come! And most importantly: Wash your hands!


	4. Full House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think there's something you should see."

Grif woke up to the familiar rumble of a motor coming to a halt. It was a gentle awakening compared to the usual nightmares. This was the first time the ship had landed since it’d picked up Grif on Iris, and the curiosity cleared his mind.

His knee was still sore, but it could support him now, and Grif stepped into the hallway without the aid of the chair. The latch had already closed before he reached it. Had the others left?

“Grif!”

Well, that answered his question.

Temple hurried towards him. His helmet was off, but that was a little comfort to the fact that Grif was the only one out of armor. It made him feel oddly small, and he’d no idea of where his armor plates were kept. He hadn’t needed them. Besides, Grif couldn’t help but appreciate the unfamiliar freedom civies gave him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Where are we?”

“Just a pitstop. A quick grocery trip.” Temple put a hand on his elbow to steady him as he led him back towards his room with a sturdy grip. “Nothing worse than running out of breakfast. Or dinner, for that sake.”

“Oh yeah.” Grif’s stomach almost rumbled at the thought. “Are we staying here for long?”

“No. No, it’s still too dangerous. But one can’t just drift around in space forever.”

“Are the others all out?”

“Yeah. Like I said, we didn’t want to wake you up.” With a swift but gentle motion, Temple had placed Grif on his bed. “So let them take care of the chores while we have all the fun, right? How about a game of yatzy?”

Grif watched Temple’s jaw tense. “You hate yatzy,” he couldn’t help but point out. For the last week, Grif had watched Temple’s scowl grow deeper every time Grif won a game. Sometimes Temple’s fist had clenched around the dice with enough strength that Grif feared they might break. 

“Of course I don’t,” Temple huffed and fetched the game from the shelf. “Why would you think that?”

Grif shrugged but didn’t fail to notice the annoyance in Temple’s tone. There was a tension that Temple didn’t manage to deflate, even with his usual smile, and it unnerved Grif more than he’d like to admit.

Hospitality normally didn’t last long if you pissed off the hosts, and he had already seen the warning signs.

So maybe Grif would let Temple win the game today.

* * *

It felt appropriate to compare Grif to a toddler who’d just learned how to walk. Freed from the wheelchair, Grif could suddenly spend the day opening doors, stepping into places he shouldn’t be. They’d reached the point where Temple had considered installing childproof locks everywhere, but the problem was that Grif would be smart enough to open them, unlike Loco whom they’d bought the locks for in the first place.

Speaking of the idiot, Temple had barely managed to stop Grif from visiting Loco in the engine room yesterday. Loco shouldn’t be disturbed - especially not now when Temple had brought him Grif’s helmet to work on.

This new project would slow down the process of the original one, but they needed these updates ready soon. For Grif’s sake.

Loco was still working on the helmet now and was absent from the meeting. It didn’t matter that much since the Blue soldier rarely had something smart to say. Loco’s skills only showed in his engineering.

“We need more explosives,” Temple declared after having skimmed their list of resources. 

The crowded boardroom was filled with various nods and huffs of agreement.

However, Cronut found the courage to raise a hand. “Is it safe to store it on the ship? Someone could trip over it.”

“Are you referring to Loco or the other idiot?” Buckey snorted. They all knew he was rolling his eyes behind the blue visor.

“That doesn’t really matter, now does it?” Temple cut the argument short and pressed a button so the interactive screen on the wall showcased the map of their closest coordinates. There wasn’t much to look at except for the haunting vastness of space, but as he zoomed out, marked dots began to appear.

Temple pointed towards one of them. “This station should be abandoned, but with our luck-”

The door slid open.

Temple barely had the time to deactivate the screen before Grif stepped inside with his big eyes filled with either curiosity or suspicion. Temple couldn’t quite tell which one was the case.

“Grif!” Temple said, and even he could hear how strained his voice was. He masked it with a tired sigh. “I thought you were taking a nap.”

Grif tilted his head as he looked through the room. “Yeah. Then I woke up. That’s usually how a nap ends.”

Temple had opened his mouth, but Cronut was faster, leaving his chair with a worried whine. “Griiiiif!” As he crouched by Grif, the pink soldier let out a horrified gasp. “What did you do to your leg?”

Brows furrowing, Grif looked down at himself to follow his glance. When he shook his leg, there were no flashes of pain across his face. “Uhm, nothing? I was napping-”

“It looks swollen,” Cronut said as he poked the knee that was of average size - besides the fat, of course. “I told you not to overdo it. Straining positions aren’t worth it in the end. Ain’t nothing my gentle hands can’t fix though.”

With his arm sprawled across Grif’s shoulders, Cronut got Grif out of the room while tsking and promising a proper massage.

When the door slid closed, there was a moment of tense silence.

Then:

“Who forgot to lock the door?” Temple asked through gritted teeth.

No one dared to answer him.

“Someone must have entered last, and that person, obviously, didn’t lock the fucking door.”

“I liked him better when his leg was messed up,” Buckey muttered darkly. “Can’t we just shove him down the stairs? I mean, if we had any.”

“Ain’t nothing a stretched leg can’t replace.”

“ _Or_ ,” Temple cut in, “we could follow my plan.”

Buckey’s helmet turned towards him. “Which is?”

“Let’s give him a job.”

* * *

One massage later, Grif sat in his room and waited. Cronut had left a while ago, and that usually meant the only other option would enter the room soon.

The massage hadn't been half bad, but it had also allowed Grif's mind to wander. Whatever meeting he had just interrupted, he realized something more would probably have to come out of it.

Grif wasn't stupid. He had seen the way everyone in the boardroom had stiffened and turned their screens around like in a bad skit.

Whatever they were working on, the Blues and Reds didn't want him around for it. And that was bad: it meant they probably wouldn't care to keep him aboard the ship for much longer.

Stuck considering his limited options, it didn't take long until a knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. Temple walked in with that vaguely serene expression he seemed to wear more and more these days.

"Hope I'm not bothering you," Temple said in an off tone, making it easy for Grif to read it as a jab at his earlier intrusion. "How are you?"

"Leg's doing better." 

"I've noticed! It's been great to see you up and about these past few days." Temple took a seat opposite of Grif and crossed his arms, still smiling. "It really has been."

Temple couldn't have made it any more obvious – Grif could feel the scrutiny, but couldn't quite tell what he was getting at with it. 

"Not a lot to see around here," Grif pointed out. "I'm not trying to bother–"

"You've not been bothering us!" Temple exclaimed, the tense air around him growing just a tad thicker. "It's just that we're real busy with our plans and you're not exactly a part of the team yet, right? So we're the ones who don't want to bother you with our mess, not unless you want to get involved. Get it? And I mean, you could at least knock if you're about to walk in on something…"

Grif took the multitude of locked doors, and the blank, blue visors at every corner of the ship, to mean that most of the crew didn't want him there. But since he didn't want them to just snap and kick him out in the middle of nowhere, there was only one other option Grif had finally allowed himself to consider:

"…I've been thinking. You asked where I'd want you to leave me and I think, yeah, I think Chorus? That would make some sense. They still sorta look up to me there, even without the others around, so that's–" 

"Oh!" Temple's smile was all teeth when he said, "You thinking of making Chorus your home, then? Anyone special waiting for you back there? Not your sister, now that's for sure!"

Taken aback by the reply, Grif shook his head and grimaced in anger, but Temple didn't give him time to say anything.

"If that's what you want, we'll see what we can do about it. Hm, of course, there is a chance you'll make the planet even more of a target for the UNSC – Chorus is having soooome trouble as we speak," Temple said with a shrug. "It also means you'd most likely run straight into the Reds and Blues at some point during your stay."

The mention of Chorus had caught Grif's attention only for a second, quickly overshadowed by the idea of meeting the Reds and Blues again. The anger was gone, replaced by a sense of hope that caught even him by surprise.

Staring at him, Temple's smile dropped. "Do you actually want to see them?" he asked, seeming to have spotted his mixed emotions and not liking it one bit.

Grif shrugged, but still didn't know what to say. He didn't want to piss off Temple, not any further, and Temple obviously didn't like the Reds and Blues. Which was fine – there wasn't too much to like.

But something had shifted again. 

Temple's eyes watched him with sharp focus, and Grif shuffled on his feet as he waited for the man to get out whatever was on his mind: and Grif had long since learned that this Blue always had a lot going on.

"I think…" Temple said slowly. "I think there's something you should see."

* * *

When the screen cut to black, and the phrases “weakest link”, “good riddance”, “friends have things in common” and “I am so alone” were left echoing inside his head, Grif found himself wrinkling the tinfoil on the volleyball with the sheer force of his grip. He couldn’t quite figure out if he wanted to embrace the thing or throw it into the darkest corner. It was quiet, mocking him.

Temple, however, never shut up as he stepped in front of him and took the screen away. 

"I know I lied, and I shouldn't have, but they were such fucking assholes! And why did I even lie? Not for them, _fuck no_ , so why did I bother trying to keep worst of it from you?" 

Temple threw his hands in the air and growled in frustration. Grif didn't look up, but it was still impossible not to see every move he made. 

Temple took most of the space with his lament. He began pacing around the room with his fists clenched. 

"I get it if you're mad at me. I'm mad at me! I shouldn't have fucking lied! But they're the ones _my_ anger's directed at, and so should yours! _How dare they_ ," Temple spat out. He sounded about ready to jump at someone's throat, and Grif got the vague sense that right now it would have to be his.

But Grif didn't move or try to curl up defensively. He just felt numb.

"I know what I said! I know I said it's better to just go with the truth and live with it but FUCK, _fuck_ , I really wanted to give you something more? At least you could have remembered them a bit better, something, if you had just... Grif." His words came to a sudden stop, gray eyes searching for Grif's. 

Temple took a sharp breath and said, "There's something to be said for letting go. I still believe that. And I only want the best for you."

Grif continued to stare at the floor, the words barely getting through to him. For a while he had wanted to say something if only to interrupt Temple's fuming, but what was there?

He had already known the Reds and Blues had been done with him, and the interviews had added nothing new on the table. Right. 

Grif had already known that the Blues and Reds were his last chance, he didn't want to trouble Chorus. And Temple had been right, too: there was no Kai for him to go home to.

If the volleyball had still been talking, it would have said pretty much the same exact thing the Simmons in the video had. None of this had come as a surprise. 

"Do you want me to go?" Temple asked slowly, as if finally becoming aware of the fact that Grif was either ignoring him or hadn't heard a word he had said. "Just say the word and I'm gone."

But when Grif still didn't find it in himself to say anything, Temple took a step towards him. 

"Grif… If you want me to stay, I'd like to know that too. Uh. Otherwise this is… pretty awkward, yeah?"

Grif glanced up at him. Temple, even with his multitude of issues, had never been forced to share all of his time with him. He didn't know what he had done to gain the Blue's attention, but he didn't want to lose it.

"Can we play yatzy?" Grif asked, for a lack of anything else to focus on. Temple looked at him in surprise and, after a pause, gave him an awkward smile. 

Without a word Temple began to look around for the dice set, Grif fiddling with his hands as he waited. Although he knew just how much Temple didn't like the game, there was something else about it that he had just realized: 

The fact that Temple was still willing to play if Grif just asked him to meant so much to him. Especially now.

The Reds and Blues didn't come up again for a good while.

* * *

The next day was so damn special, and Temple could barely contain his excitement. It was finally time to see if the first stage had worked out in his favor. 

It better have. 

Temple couldn't find it in himself to deal with the current iteration of Dexter Grif for much longer; not without both of them losing either their minds or lives in the progress.

Hoping to avoid that scenario, Temple was almost skipping in his steps as he made his way from Loco's workshop, down the corridor, and up towards the previous storage locker that had been turned into Grif's room. He knocked on the door and didn't wait for a reply, pushing it open with the present held hidden behind his back.

"You're awake! Good!"

Grif eyed him for a moment before greeting him. The tired slump of his shoulders was nothing unusual, but Temple knew he was still being affected by the previous day's "revelations" – the thought confirmed by the sight of the maroon visored volleyball having since been stashed in the darkest corner of the room. 

The sight of the volleyball finally out of Grif's hands filled him with an unexpected amount of glee. All smiles now, Temple cheerfully asked, "Any guesses for what I've brought you? It's very special!"

Grif shook his head, studying Temple with a little more care and trying to catch a peek of the present. Before he could make a guess, Temple revealed the gift to him; too excited to hold back any longer.

Temple let out a loud "Ta-dah!" when Grif saw the helmet in his arms: 

An orange helmet fitted with a bright blue visor.

"It's yours," Temple said. "Loco fixed the cooling, the rest of the armor's too, and I thought to ask for one last modification... To help you fit in better, here, with us?"

There was a hopeful note to Temple's voice and he wished it didn't go unnoticed by Grif. He really needed Grif to accept the damn thing, and anything to push him over that line was a welcome break.

"It's like… yours, the visor. Wait," Grif looked bewildered, glancing up at Temple. "Do you want me to join you guys? Like, for real join you guys?"

"Welllll." Temple shrugged, attempting to go for casual and failing badly. "You're here, sure, but you could also _belong_ here if you wanted to. Plus we could always use your help, and I do like your company…" He smirked, slightly wider still when he noticed Grif's hand twitch by his side. 

When Grif said nothing, Temple added, "I bet it'll look good on you."

Grif shook his head. "I don't know I'd be useful–" or something along those lines is what he tried to say, but Temple was quick to interrupt before he got a word of it out:

"We'll find just the job for you, don't you worry! I know what I'm asking, and I wouldn't bother if I didn't mean it. Grif, honest; I'd be lucky to have you join the team."

Grif stared at the blue visor, then at Temple. He was lost for words and Temple inched the helmet just a little closer to him. "What do you think?"

Grif took a breath, then reached for the helmet. Maybe he was worried that Temple would redact his offer if he didn't snatch it from him in time, and that's just the reaction Temple had been hoping for.

The bait was on the hook, writhing, and Temple found himself eager to move on to the real catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the news, they might soon open up for travels between Finland and Denmark, so our combined power might soon be released.


	5. Bow the Knee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shut up, Gene.”

The blue visor didn’t change how the world looked. That was a pleasant discovery. Grif had been capital Red for such a long time, a blue tint would feel off. To the outside world, his helmet had changed, but fortunately for Grif, he couldn’t exactly take a look at himself. For him, nothing had changed.

“It fits just perfectly,” Temple had reassured him once again as they’d left the ship. They didn’t count on meeting any strangers here. According to their intel, this colony had been abandoned for a while.

The empty houses were clear proof of this - the walls were overgrown, and in many cases, the ceiling had caved in. Grif would kick away rubble to see if anything useful had been left behind.

‘Anything’ is the keyword.

“Anything, really,” Temple had explained during the pre-mission meeting. “But Loco would love some more metal. Or anything that can explode! Or bend. The idiot’s a miracle worker like that.”

It’d been strange to set foot outside the ship for the first time in weeks. Grif wasn’t quite sure how to describe his feelings regarding the situation - the ship limited his freedom but also provided safety. This small, quiet planet just brought up bad memories of the moon.

The group had spread out, and Grif had used the opportunity to explore the eastern part of what had once been a city by himself. He’d been alone in his room a lot, but even then he’d felt surrounded. The fresh air - as fresh as it can be on the other side of a visor - provided a chance for some reflection.

Though, Grif preferred not to think too much about his current situation. He didn’t want to doubt his decision to help Temple and the others out. It wasn’t much of a decision, really. Temple was right about the danger. The world was out to get Grif. Sure, it felt strange to suddenly be a part of a new group, and the familiarity actually didn’t help the slightest, but Grif had been in the need of a group. The others had left. It was over.

So why did this sinking feeling stay in his gut?

Something shiny caught his eye, and Grif bent over to pick up the can that had once contained beans. Pure trash, really, but if Loco could use it, Grif would be productive for once. Just to secure his new spot on the team.

Grif picked up more resources after that, trying to grab a variety of trash - anything from plastic to metal to pieces of wire. Temple had mentioned explosives, so he grabbed a wooden board as well. It would be flammable, he thought. That had to count.

The orange soldier had ventured far away from the ship, so when the commotion began, Grif looked up in shock. He dropped the supplies when the gunshots rang out.

Grif spun around, ready to run back, but froze when he suddenly found himself staring at his reflection in a broken window. The blue visor threw him off, and he’d already raised his rifle before he realized he was staring at himself.

It wasn’t even much of a change. Just a little blue amongst the orange. It was meant to make him fit in.

How ironic that it instead gave him an out-of-body experience. Was this really him? When had he become a stranger to himself?

Grif was dragged back into his body by the sheer horror that came from hearing a familiar wail of pain.

“Simmons?” Grif whispered, almost falling over in this sudden fear. He would recognize the voice anywhere.

His already abused heart almost burst when the second fright took place - Grif looked up and found a second figure staring at him in the reflection. Out of nowhere, a grey-armored soldier had appeared behind him, the gray decorated by green trims...

“Grif?” the soldier asked. 

Grif knew the voice.

“Lo-lo-locus?!”

Grif backed away and tripped over the dropped can. As he fell, his finger pressed the trigger, and Locus let out a grunt of pain before vanishing again.

Grif had tried to catch himself against the window, but it shattered further under his weight. He forced himself to get on his feet, and then he ran. He knew better than to take on the mercenary by himself. He needed the others as back-up - and the others needed him. 

The memory of shouting and gunfire hit Grif hard - but then he focused on the fact that he’d heard Simmons cry out. _Simmons_.

Was Simmons here? It was a crazy thought, but Locus was definitely here, so that meant it was possible. 

Grif ran as fast as he could, constant tripping when he looked over his shoulder to make sure Locus wasn’t at his heels. Not that it mattered much - the guy was a sniper and could take out Grif from a distance. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, so Grif chose to ignore it and focus on the maroon soldier before him. He was sitting close to the ship that was currently surrounded by colorful soldiers running around in a panic.

The maroon was tainted by blood, slipping through the fingers that were clutching the knee.

“Ow! My kneecap!” Simmons’ voice wailed.

“Grif!” Temple called out, worried, and relieved all at once. He hurried towards them, but Grif paid him no attention.

“Simmons!”

“Owowowowow- Don’t touch that, you fucking idiot!”

Grif pulled away, blood on his hands from when he’d attempted to help. His heart was beating painfully fast. “Simmons, what are you doing here?”

“Piece of-ow. Motherfucking ow. I told you, Temple, I told you this place would suuuuuuuck- _ow_!”

With no hesitation, Temple brutally dragged the injured soldier up by the arm and kept his grip so that he could limp towards the ship that was ready for takeoff. 

“Shut up, Gene,” Temple said, and Grif could feel his mind and heart shatter simultaneously.

* * *

After he had thrown Gene inside the ship, Temple had been yelling out the last of his orders, everyone scurrying to follow them before their attacker could wipe them all out.

Everyone except Grif.

He had stood by the entrance as everyone else rushed past him, staring down at the pool of blood left behind by the maroon's busted leg. The same blood remained all over Grif's hands.

There was no panic left in him, not even when Temple turned back to him, practically screaming at Grif to snap out of it already. When Grif made no move to follow, Temple grabbed him by the shoulders, similar to the way he had done with Gene – and Grif knew it hadn’t been Simmons, he couldn't have been; and should he be glad of that, what with the injury and the way his reunion with Simmons would have to go. 

Either Temple was stronger than he looked or Grif had clung to his touch, but the next thing he knew he had been dragged inside. He stood in front of his room and watched the door be opened by Temple.

"Get cleaned up or something," Temple said in a hurry, pushing Grif inside the room and seeming to look anywhere but at him. "We're taking off."

With that he was gone and shouting at the rest of his crew no doubt, and not bothering to ask Grif for help. He didn't mind.

Absentmindedly he began to rub the blood from his hands. It hadn't dried yet, meaning he was really only succeeding in spreading it around some more.

There wasn't much going on in his brain, and it took him a good while to take in what Temple had said. When he could feel the ship rumble to life and take off, stumbling around in the storage room as he tried to keep his footing, Grif finally pulled off his helmet.

The blood from his gloves left a small handprint on its side, he noted, staring at it for a second before setting it down on the table. A moment later, he turned the helmet so that he couldn't see the bloodied blue visor any more.

Next, he tried to take off his gloves. Maybe he should have done that first to avoid dirtying the newly fixed and cleaned helmet Temple had just given him, but it was too late now. 

Numb, Grif stood in place and tried to figure out what he could clean the gloves and armor with. But in the time it took to find no solution, Temple had made his way back into the room. 

Still in armor but with no helmet on, he stopped under the doorframe and stared at Grif, who had also turned to stare blankly back at him.

"Doesn't seem like we're being followed, but can't be too careful..." Temple said, glancing down at the traces of blood on Grif's hands. He huffed, irritated by the sudden attack. "We'll be maneuvering for a while to make sure we've lost him, whoever he is."

His brain pushing out all thoughts of Simmons and Gene, the memory of the familiar green armor snapped Grif back into focus. "Locus! It was Locus!"

Surprised by the outburst, Temple straightened. His frown deepened. "Wait, so you know the guy? Who exactly is he, and how worried should we be with him on our trail?"

"A mercenary – one of the ones who caused the civil war back at Chorus! Real scary and dangerous; you don't want anything to do with him! And if he's after us, too, shit, or is he after the others? Is he actually mad we ruined things for them back at Chorus? It was weird, the way it all ended, but Temple, he recognized me! If he's not actually after you guys, but the others instead, then–" 

Right as he was about to slip back into the all too familiar pattern of speech, Grif's words came to a sudden stop. "Then?" Temple asked, turning his back to him. 

"We need to warn them!" Grif said and sounded way more confident than he felt.

His words gave him that same glimmer of hope he had felt when he had thought he had heard Simmons' voice cry out, just for a second ignoring how pained it had sounded. He had thought: 'Maybe he came back. Maybe I can help. Maybe there is a way I can fix everything.'

And while Grif still struggled to get a read of his own mixed emotions, Temple could immediately tell what he was clinging on to. As per usual, it didn't help with his mood.

Irritated, Temple turned and began to walk back towards Grif, effectively cornering him in the small room. Though Temple was a little shorter than him, Grif couldn't help but feel like the man was towering over him.

In the short time, he had been aboard this ship, Grif had seen a lot of changes in Temple's mood, but for once that didn’t matter. This was different. 

And maybe it was because Grif felt different, too, the blood on his hands and a sudden surge of energy demanding him to act instead of playing house with Temple.

"But the others—!"

"Seriously? Everything I've done for you, after everything I've TOLD YOU, and still you want to run straight back into their arms? Do you really think they would appreciate that? _From you?_ "

Grif stared at him, too numb to truly react to the words. His brows furrowed, a further sense of determination settling in as he kept arguing:

"It- it doesn't matter what they think! It's not just the UNSC, now, it’s Locus! I need to warn them or they have no—"

Temple flinched, or that's what it looked like, and took another step closer. "No. No, you don't. You won't," he said with a grimace. His voice had lowered, angry in a way Grif hadn't seen him before. "I'm not letting you."

"What?"

"You're aboard my ship, under my command, and you are not doing shit if I don't permit you to – and no, you're not fucking going anywhere!" Temple snarled and leaned towards him, suddenly shoving him hard against the wall.

Grif was too caught off guard to keep his balance. He fell back with a heavy thump, letting out a grunt as he barely managed to keep himself from dropping all the way to the floor.

Wide-eyed, Grif looked up at Temple. The man was breathing heavily, his hands curled into fists and shaking by his sides. 

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Temple said, way too calmly as his fists unclenched. He tilted his head at Grif, now actually looming above him. "Why can't you just do as you're told, yes? Why can't you, just, act like you're supposed to and _stay_ —"

Temple shut his mouth, his gaze ice-cold and unwavering as he continued to stare him down. Grif said nothing, his earlier determination wavering.

He didn't bother trying to get back on his feet, not even when Temple turned around and exited the room without another word. When the door clicked shut, Grif could hear the lock being turned as well.

He had never paid mind to how there was a lock on the outside of the storage room that Temple had given to him. Of the many locks aboard this ship, that one had never been used before.

Grif slid down the rest of the wall and sat on the floor. On the other corner, the nearly deflated volleyball with its ruined maroon tinfoil glared straight back at him.

For some reason, he hadn't gotten rid of it yet. Even Temple hadn't said a word about it since gifting Grif his new helmet.

Grif thought about Locus and the remaining blood on his gloves – always a pain to clean out – but what he ended up focusing on was the orange visor on the volleyball's crinkled tinfoil face. It had every right to be mad at him.

Temple probably did as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support! Every comment means a lot.
> 
> Covid sucks, and the plans to see each other this summer have sadly been sorta cancelled. The moment we can, we'll meet up again. Take care, all of you!


	6. No Smoke Without Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why’s the cop pretending to be a Muppet?”

A long time ago, Kai learned that to make people move out of your way, you have to walk like you were about to murder someone with your bare hands. It was called the murder strut. It was very easy to do, actually. It required firm thighs, great boots, a head held high, quick pace, and a strong sense of purpose. Men would both dive out of your way and stare up at you in wonder.

Today, she’d added an extra oomph to her strut. Not to appear more sexy - she didn’t need that, and especially not in a hospital that was probably filled with old people now when the planet wasn’t busy killing each other. Kai just needed people to move out of her way so they wouldn’t slow her down.

Room B-204, B-205, B-206… Almost there. At least the rooms weren’t color-coded. 

Around her, pacemakers began to go off. People stared. Some fainted. A single nurse dared to ask her if she was looking for a relative.

“Only immediate family,” the nurse said as if she hadn’t let the Reds and Blues swarm Agent Washington’s room the last couple of days.

“I almost fucked one of them,” Kai said, moving to push the door open. “That has to count.”

Actually, in the case of Agent Washington, ‘immediate family’ didn’t just cover friends in the shape of Sim Troopers and a fellow Freelance - in the corner of the room, Kai recognized the reporter that had approached her in Blood Gulch and her living camera.

“-as I’m concerned, Grif can go fuck himseeeeeeeeeee-” Behind the aqua helmet (which was, in fact, light grey in Kai’s eyes) the anger seeped away from Tucker’s glare to be replaced by fear as the yellow armored figure marched into their private and heated discussion. At first, he was ready to chew out the next person who’d simply entered his field of vision, but then he realized just who he was staring at. “Hi, Kai! What the fuck?!”

“The only one who gets to fuck my brother is the squeaky, nerdy guy,” Kai said. The finger that had been threateningly close to Tucker’s visor twisted to point at Simmons instead.

The maroon soldier let out something that might have been a squeak.

With the room’s full attention on her, visors hiding anything from confused to fearful to shameful faces, Kai spun around to face the reporter and her buddy with the stalker helmet. 

“See - I knew you were into kinky stuff; you’re filming Tucker. Is this his sex tape or what? Leather couches have been out of fashion since the discovery of sweat, but a hospital bed? Really?”

“What are you doing here?” Dylan said, fulfilling her job description by asking the question that was on everyone’s mind.

“Someone forgot to pick me up,” Kai said with a shrug. “So I pitched a ride with the glow stick dude who’d given me his number at the psychedelic festival. Told me he’d show me his stick if I gave him a call. Hah. Turns out ‘take you for a ride’ is not just a lame flirting phrase - it’s a euphemism _and_ an Uber order.”

“Riiide,” Wash added from the hospital bed, voice hoarse and slurred. “Magic carpet ride, every door will open wide-”

“Why’s the cop pretending to be a Muppet?” Kai asked the crowded room.

They told her.

Not just why Agent Washington was on so many painkillers he was confused he was stuck in a children’s show - but also about the events that had led to the bullet piercing his throat. 

When the Reds and Blues had first begun to grow suspicious of their counterparts, they had gone looking for a private area in Temple’s lair (“Except he called it an underwater base,” Donut added helpfully. “The lighting was an improvement from the desert, but the _interior design_! No wonder we didn’t spot the bomb right away!”) to discuss their doubts – which were all proven true when the darkened room they’d entered had turned out to contain several dead Freelancers and two still alive.

Wash had been groggy back then, but Carolina’s anger had fuelled her to get on her feet and help beat the villainous Sim Troopers that had suddenly begun to appear from every corner of the lair. They had won the fight, but there had been three big buts.

First of all; the Blues and Reds had made their followers fight the Reds and Blues to buy themselves enough time to escape, and by the time the final bullet had been fired, they had already been gone. Their whereabouts were still unknown.

Secondly; the battle had ended with the underwater lair blowing up. No one really knew how the fire had started, but they all blamed Donut who had infamously already burned down a water park – an underwater lair seemed to be a downgrade from that. With the lair gone, and since Temple had been sure to delete Dylan’s footage, they had no proof of the Blues and Reds’ existence. Left with no way of clearing their name, the UNSC was technically still on their asses.

And finally; Wash had taken a bullet to the throat, which had left them unable to pursue the Blues and Reds as the number one priority had suddenly been to get Wash to the nearest hospital. Fortunately, that turned out to be the General Doyle General Hospital, and with Doctor Grey’s skills the Freelancer’s condition was now stable, though the complications were yet to be revealed. 

Tucker ended the tale with a heavy sigh. “So all of this shows that our real priority should be to find the Blues and Reds. Not Grif. Because–” He could feel Kai’s piercing glare and faltered. He coughed before he found a proper excuse. “Because he didn’t want us to stay around. Therefore: not our fault.”

“It’d be downright dishonorable to deny the fatass the honor of crawling back on his knees for forgiveness,” Sarge huffed. “We owe the bastard that much.”

Suddenly, the Reds seemed to be looking anywhere but in Kai’s direction.

Unfaced, Kai put her hands on her hips. “How can he come crawling to you if you left him without a ship?”

“That’s what I said,” Simmons said, nodding like a bobblehead. “We should see Grif, and if he doesn’t want to come with us, it hasn’t changed anything, right? He- Well, he might be mad if we wake him up from a nap, but he’ll know it comes from a place of, uhm, _concern_.”

“Please,” Kai spat. “We are going because I say we are.”

“It’s a waste of time!” Tucker insisted, flailing his hands. “Grif doesn’t want to see us again, and every wasted second is a second Temple and his loonies are free to roam around, kill people, and taint our names in the process.”

“I told you they were fakes!” Kai turned towards Dylan, smacking her lips. “That means I’m right! So we are going to pick up big bro right. Now. Except for the dying dude,” she said, throwing her thumb towards Wash who’d fallen asleep during storytime.

“Not dying,” Carolina insisted a bit too firmly. “Recovering.”

But the important unspoken part was this: with Wash no longer at risk of dying, the Reds and Blues could finally leave Chorus to follow the next step of their plan. A step that was still being discussed.

“Grif can wait,” Tucker said once more. “We are going after the Blues and Reds.”

* * *

They were on the fastest route back to Iris. 

With some effort – or; with the "help" of one Doctor Grey – Carolina had been convinced to stay in the hospital. After all, they were on a simple pickup mission to go get Grif and there was absolutely no reason for her to get involved, especially not when they needed her to heal back to full force before the next shitshow.

Aboard Dylan's ship, some were more excited to be reunited with Grif than others. In most cases, the idea just made them even more tense than Kai's lousy mood had.

"How much farther?" Kai snapped, her arms on her hips as she loomed above Dylan. "Shit, you're slow at flying this thing."

Doing her best to not be bothered by the woman standing by her, Dylan's studied the coordinates. Her eyes flickered from the screens up to the window. "There," she said and pointed. "That's Iris."

Kai leaned forward to see the moon grow rapidly in size as they approached. Covered by water, forests, and other distinct landscapes, it looked inviting enough – or it would have to someone who wasn't colorblind.

"That's it?" Kai squinted. "That's where you dumped him?"

Dylan bit her lip, then turned on her seat to address the others instead, "Get ready to–"

"Wait a sec, what's that?" Kai leaned over Dylan to get closer to the screen and to furiously tap it. 

Frowning, the reporter peeked under the other woman's outstretched arm and followed her gaze back towards the surface of the moon. Even from the remaining distance, it was impossible to miss what had caught Kai's eye. 

The two bases were in ruin. And not the kind of ruin they had been in after Donut had managed to burn them down.

This time, the bases had quite literally been destroyed. Blown apart. 

_In pieces._

At the sight, Dylan's jaw dropped and Kai's already sour mood began to turn so much _worse_.

"The FUCK's this? Dex held a party and didn't invite me?"

Dylan's mouth clicked shut, numbly, as the Reds and Blues hurried forward to also take a look at the destruction. As Dylan slowed down their decent, careful of their surroundings and of possible company, they were stunned to notice the other thing that was impossible to miss the closer to the surface they got:

There was a crashed spacecraft right by their old bases. Seeing it, there was some awkward shuffling among the group.

Simmons gulped, more dumfounded than anything. "...I don't think it was a party. At least, not a very good one." 

"Not for Grif it wasn't." Tucker's voice was low; the exact opposite of Simmons'. "What the hell."

"Disagreed," Sarge said with a huff. "Any hunting party with Grif as the game is nothing but fun for the whole family."

Kai didn't react to that one, more focused on the debris than the chatter for once.

They couldn't see anything move, no signs of life on the moon's surface, which led to the unnaturally tense silence spreading over the Reds and Blues when they finally landed. Stepping out by the ruins, weapons at ready, they took in the scene before them.

But unlike the rest of the group's slower and much more confused approach, Kai wasn't holding back. She rushed forward and began to call out to her brother.

When there was no response, the others glanced at each other. They couldn't do much more than that, considering the one place they would have known to look for Grif was the base that no longer existed.

And then there was the wrecked spacecraft, which they could now see belonged to the UNSC. It couldn't have been there for very long.

"So what the fuck happened here? Where is he?" Tucker snapped, turning his back to the bases and gesturing at the crashed ship instead.

They hadn't been expecting much of their reunion with Grif. 

Now, they didn't know how to deal with there not having been one.

"Someone did take down the spacecraft," Dylan said slowly, studying the scene with a little more care and professionalism than the others, some of whom she could see were becoming increasingly agitated by the unexpected lack of Grif. "And the UNSC is an actual military force; would Grif have been able to shoot it down? What weapons did he have on him?" 

"I saw that fucker Temple shoot one down, it happens." Tucker crossed his arms, then released the hold with some discomfort. Even he couldn't just dismiss the obvious, repeating: 

"Where the hell is Grif?"

"He could be hiding?" Simmons whispered, standing way too straight on the sidelines of the group.

Dylan nodded in thought, then glanced between the hillside and the Reds and Blues who were still eyeing the ruined base that had been their home until recently. She could see that Caboose had joined Kai in running around, the Blue more focused on pointing out bits and pieces of the fun activities they had put together during their "retirement".

A lot had happened in the year they had lived here. And a lot more in the short while since they had left.

"Just in case..." Dylan said, not expecting anyone to actually be listening to her. "If he's still here on Iris, I might know where. I'll check." 

They didn't even notice her slipping away towards the caves.

"Like the UNSC would have been scared off that easy, there's got to have been more than one ship," Tucker said irritatedly, still eyeing the crashed spacecraft. He thought back to the UNSC's attack at Desert Gulch and compared it to the chaos around them. "Plus, they were shooting to kill. They wouldn't have given Grif the chance to run off!"

"Even if that fatass had bothered to try running, he wouldn't have gotten far." All visors turned to Sarge. "Must've shot him down."

Having already searched through the small confines of the destroyed bases, Kai approached the rest of them. She was fuming, but she did pause in her pacing when she caught Sarge's words. Unnaturally still, her visor turned to him. 

Sarge didn't seem fazed by it.

"No. Fuck no. There's no body, not even blood; and if there's no body, he ain't dead," Kai snapped, kicking a deflated volleyball out of her way before turning to glare between the destroyed buildings and the wrecked ship. A part of her looked ready to start running around again to find Grif, but another seemed to know there was no point. 

For whatever reason, looking at the destruction around them, they all got the same feeling. This wasn't their usual case of MIA – an actual fight had taken place here.

"If he's not here, then the UNSC must have taken him..." Simmons mumbled, his back turned to the UNSC ship. "Right?"

"If we're done wasting our time here, we need to find the Blues and Reds! That's what we actually need to fucking do!" Tucker said and, before Simmons could argue, which he was obviously going to do based on the way he flailed his arms, Tucker pointed at the UNSC's ship. He continued: 

"Alright, fine! Let's pretend the UNSC has him; dead or alive, if they've got Grif, for whatever reason, there's nothing you can do about it until we've taken out _the people pretending to be us!_ That's the entire reason the UNSC's after us, right? Then that's got to be why they came for Grif!"

He wasn't wrong. 

Although it was easy to tell Tucker was more focused on what had happened to Wash than the mystery of Grif's current location, the explosion at the underwater lair still echoed in the back of their minds. Whatever Temple's crew had been planning to do with that bomb, they doubted he had given up on the idea.

They all knew that the Blues and Reds were a problem that needed to be taken care of and fast. Otherwise, the fakes would get in their way no matter what they might want to do next. Even Kai knew that, based on everything she had learned on the flight over.

While they were still considering Tucker's words, Dylan returned. They turned to her. 

No one cared where she had been, but still waited for her to speak like she could give some type of a conclusion to the search and their useless argument. That is exactly what they got:

"We should still fly-by to get a better look, but… He's not here, I think. "

Not waiting for the others to come to terms with it, Tucker nodded and began to walk back towards the ship. Although they were all caught off guard and confused by the situation regarding Grif's disappearance, the rest of the Reds and Blues weren't far behind him.

For now, there was only one course of action they could take, and it was the one they were going to go with. Not even Kai was arguing, still looking about ready to murder someone and making Tucker feel glad to have that rage be directed at the Blues and Reds rather than him.

But as they prepared to leave Iris, Simmons lagged behind the rest of the crew. He was slow on his feet and there was a terrible feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. 

He stopped and turned more than once, to look back towards the direction Grif had disappeared to when he had first decided to leave the group. Simmons hadn't tried to stop him from walking away then, yet somehow felt even worse about leaving Iris now than he had the last time they had taken off to search for "Church". 

At least back then he had thought that he knew where he could find Grif again if he ever felt like he needed to, but he had been wrong to think that. This time, Iris was going to be left well and truly empty of life.

Simmons had no idea what that could possibly mean for Grif.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the change of tone in this chapter is simply amazing. guess which author wrote which part  
> (ria speaking here - this fic and hazk is dragging me back in the rvb fandom, be grateful, i love writing this fic, we have so many surprises coming up <3 )


	7. Mission Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want you to follow me,” Temple said and glanced over his shoulder. “Watch my back? Yes?”

“Knock knock,” Temple said and entered the storage locker a.k.a Grif’s bedroom before he could receive a reply. He was holding a tray with a clear glass of water and a bowl of what looked like heated beans. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, but you have to be hungry by now.”

Grif raised a single eyebrow. 

Until now he’d been convinced that the door had been locked. It hadn’t opened ever since Temple had snapped and left the small room fuming. Grif had known better than to disturb him when he was in a bad mood.

Left alone with his confused thoughts, Grif wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He’d collapsed in his bed, stared at the ceiling, and Simmons’ voice - or was it Gene’s? - had echoed inside his skull, calling him an idiot.

It was as if his past refused to let go of him while pushing him away. He couldn’t go to Chorus, he didn’t know where the others were, and now Locus had shown up out of nowhere and Grif had- Grif had shot him. That was the most confusing part, actually.

“Still giving me the cold shoulder, huh,” Temple said and sighed.

“I’m not…” Grif began but the words died on his tongue. He had too many questions. He just didn’t _understand_. Gene being, well, Gene despite sounding exactly like Simmons, and Locus’ surprise at seeing him, and Temple’s anger, and his own inability to figure out what to do next. It was all too much.

“What the fuck is going on?” Grif finally had to ask.

“We were attacked. You were there. Eat.” Temple placed the tray on the corner of the bed and moved back to lean against the wall. “I can hear your stomach rumble.”

Grif dragged the food slowly toward himself, all while eying Temple.

Looking up from his closed hands, Temple said, “So, the good news; Gene will be fine. He’ll bitch, and we’ll suffer, but he’ll live.”

“He sounds…”

“Yeah. Weird that, huh?” Temple chuckled briefly. “Freaked Simmons out, too. They didn’t like each other much, Gene and Simmons. And, if we’re sharing thoughts, I didn’t really like him either. Bit of a stick up his ass, right? You’ve heard how he talked about you, on those tapes…”

Grif nodded and tried not to choke on a mouthful of beans that tasted way too bitter. “And Locus?”

“Bastard has a good shot.” Temple’s face suddenly broke into a wide grin. “But you dealt with him! Just look at that…”

“We have to warn-”

“Yeah, yeah. And just how are we supposed to do that? Chorus’ still closed off, and the authorities are hunting _us_ , remember?”

“Well… If my friends…”

“I don’t care about your friends,” Temple spat. “More importantly - your friends don’t care about you.” Temple opened his mouth, inhaled sharply, and closed it again before beginning another sentence. “We’re not going to look for them! It’s not worth it. They’re not worth it. Plus - we have bigger problems to deal with.”

He gestured towards the bowl Grif had almost finished.

“We’re running low on food,” Temple explained with a pained expression. “ _Obviously_ , we need to fix that before anything else. Don’t you agree?”

Grif, mouth filled with beans, nodded slowly.

“So I say, you help us fix this problem. Teams stick together like that, you know.” Temple tried his best to sound joyful and failed. Grif fought not to wince on his behalf. “We’ll talk things through after. You and I. About what to do next.”

Grif didn’t say anything to that. Obviously a lot of things would have to be said later, so why poke that sore now? Maybe by then Grif will have managed to collect both his thoughts and some courage.

“Well? Want to help us out?” Temple asked when the silence had dragged out a bit too long. “Hopefully no one gets shot this time, heh.”

Grif wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh at that. He didn’t. He just finished his dinner and nodded. “Right.”

* * *

The planet looked like all the others - like a piece of shit. It was small and isolated, and the few shelters Grif could spot were decrepit. They’d landed on top of the cliff, allowing them to get a proper view of the disappointing landscape.

“Don’t forget this,” Temple said as they walked down the ramp of the spaceship. He handed Grif his helmet. Grif didn’t remember losing it but quickly shoved it over his head.

Temple chuckled at the sight. “Heh, imagine if that mercenary had gone for Gene’s head rather than his knee. Better keep the helmets on.”

Due to his injury, Gene was left behind in the ship along with Lorenzo. The rest of the group spread out to cover the large area. It’d require more than luck to find something useful here.

“What do I have to do?” Grif asked Temple who gestured for him to follow. The sooner they finished this job, the sooner Grif could go back and sulk in his bed. Of course that also meant his talk with Temple was coming up, and Grif wasn’t sure what to expect from that.

“I want you to follow me,” Temple said and glanced over his shoulder. “Watch my back? Yes?”

Grif shrugged. “Sure.”

If they had to seek food from this dump, they had to be pretty desperate. Or maybe Grif had eaten too much? The others had always complained about that. It’d surprise no one if he’d fucked up again.

Grif knew he should care greatly about this task, that he needed to prove himself more than ever. He hadn’t forgotten about Temple’s outburst, even if Temple pretended it’d never happened. 

Tripping over a broken plank, Grif cursed and stared at the ground. There was nothing here. Even Temple didn’t look like he cared about scavenging at this point.

“Grif,” Temple called from ahead. “Right at my heels, yeah? I don’t want you to get lost.”

As they neared the ledge of the cliff, Grif tried his best not to trip again. It would be a nasty fall all the way down, and he didn’t dare to count on Temple to catch him if he were to lose his footing.

When the unfamiliar spaceship suddenly entered the atmosphere, however, Grif looked up instead of down. It took too many seconds before he realized that he wasn’t hallucinating. 

“Huh?” Grif twisted his head around, trying to figure out if they were fleeing or not. Had Locus come after them?

“Stay with Surge,” Temple ordered, and the red soldier appeared next to him. He must never have strayed far from the leader, after all. “It’ll be just a moment,” Temple said and took off, disappearing behind a boulder with his gun drawn.

Grif didn’t follow Temple. He was pretty sure Surge wouldn’t let him if he tried.

Instead, he remained on the ledge, trying to see if he could spot the newcomers from here. The ship had landed behind some gray trees, and Temple had disappeared in that direction.

Surge was quiet as usual, but when Grif took a step forward, he huffed. 

Even when gunshots echoed in the distance, Surge didn’t move. He did, however, ready his gun when Temple came running, cursing loudly.

“Your stupid friends are attacking us!” Temple was panting, pistol attached to his thigh as he pointed at Grif’s chest.

When he had seen the ship, Grif had dared to hope if only for a few seconds. Even then, it still came as a shock. “What?”

“We explained everything! They didn’t listen! They don’t _care._ ” Temple took a hold of Grif’s wrist, holding him in place. “ _I told you-_ ”

Grif wasn’t sure if he finished his sentence. He’d stopped listening by then. From the woods, at the bottom of the cliff, colored dots began to appear from between the trees.

Familiar colors. All with golden visors. 

Grif’s breath got stuck in his throat.

Blue, aqua, pink, brown, red, maroon. _Yellow_.

Grif’s vision had begun to waver, limbs growing numb as his heart kept skipping beats. Could it be real? He wouldn’t have trusted the sight had it not been for Temple’s curses.

The Reds and Blues gathered beneath them, guns raised so that they were aimed at their helmets.

“Hold up, assholes!” Tucker called out. “Running already?! Not a surprise - it’s the one thing you’re good at!”

“Actually, I’d call it mediocre,” Simmons said next to him. “We did find them, after all.”

“See! Even the nerd thinks you suck! So come down so we can kick your asses before you lose that tiny itsy bitsy dignity you have left! It won’t change much, but maybe we’ll take some pity and- Grif?”

One by one, they stiffened in shock. Grif barely noticed, however; he was too busy staring at the last soldier in line.

The one in yellow armor. 

“Kai?” 

Next to him, Temple snapped his head back and forth between Grif and the yellow-armored person who could be none other than his sister. He inhaled sharply.

“Is that big bro? Is it him?!” Kai screamed beneath them. She was shaking Simmons as she yelled, clutching him by the chest plate.

As Kai began to jump up and down to wave at him, Simmons began to slowly shake his head instead.

“Dex!”

“Kai!” Grif yelled, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice. “Holy shit! Kai!”

“Dexter!”

“Kai!” Grif cursed when Temple’s hand kept him in place. “Let go.”

“Grif!” Kai cried and took a step towards him, and Grif wanted to run, wanted to hug her.

He couldn’t, not with Temple holding onto him with an iron grip. Then even Kai stopped; Temple’s free hand was raising his pistol.

“No! Temple, stop aiming at them! You aren’t helping!”

“What the fuck’s he doing here?!” Tucker yelled, twisting his head to look at his teammates. “Why is he with _them_?!”

“It... It can't be him. What the fuck is going on?” Simmons asked, barely loud enough for Grif to hear.

Grif’s heart skipped a beat. _This wasn’t Gene_ \- Gene was in the ship with a bandaged knee. He was sure of that. “Simmons!” 

“Grif, get your traitorous behind down here this instance!”

“Gruf!”

“Don’t shoot!” Grif asked, doing his best to yank his hand free from Temple’s hold. Why was no one listening to him? “Let’s just- Temple- C’mon, just calm the fuck down-”

“See?! I was right! Told you he’d ditched the moon!”

“Gri-”

The voices died out as if someone had just muted the world with a single click of a button. No more yelling. Not even the sound of the wind.

Just quiet. 

Temple pulled at his wrist and Grif stumbled backward. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of something else bright blue, but then Surge gave him a shove in the back. 

Perhaps they were ordering him to move. Grif couldn’t hear them.

It was oh so lonely, like the base when the others had left, and Grif found himself led away while doubled over, clutching the side of his helmet. He couldn’t pull it off, couldn’t make the sound come back.

Grif was screaming inside the helmet when Temple dragged him back in the ship, and by then he’d realized no one could hear him. Unable to free himself from Temple’s hold, he turned to take one last look outside.

As the doors began to close, Grif’s eyes widened in fear. 

The Reds and Blues were running up the cliffside, towards them. Though unable to hear anything, Grif could almost feel the dull echo of their guns being fired straight at the ship, Temple and _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ria: I'm too tired to make a note. Hazk, help.
> 
> hazk: …Happy Halloween!
> 
> Ria: Oh yeah, that's a thing.


	8. One Man's Trash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both needed a breather, but he shouldn't wait too long. The situation with Grif was becoming unbearable—

Temple dragged him in by the arm. Grif tried to struggle, but Temple had full faith in the strength of his grip as he led him through the ship and back to the storage that had become his room.

Grif stumbled inside and spun around to face Temple, but with his muted helmet it was impossible to see just how he was reacting to what had just happened. Pretty sure he knew the answer, Temple slammed the door shut behind him.

Temple locked the door and stood outside it for a second, felt like kicking it down, then straightened. He would go to the cockpit, make sure they got away safely, and only then focus on the man behind the door.

They both needed a breather, but he shouldn't wait too long. The situation with Grif was becoming _unbearable—_

Temple closed his eyes. He inhaled, exhaled, then focused on the reason behind all of his actions so far. That done, he backed away from the door behind which he could hear Grif struggle to get the helmet off his head. 

"All's in place. Just got to follow the plan," Temple mumbled to himself, an expectant smile on his face as he forgot all about Grif's existence for the briefest of moments.

* * *

It had taken a while but they were finally safe. Now it was time to focus on the collateral.

Temple cracked his neck and placed his helmet on the floor besides the storage. His smile firmly back in place, he unlocked the door and took a careful step inside.

Mismatched eyes glared back at him and there were bruises on Grif's face. Whatever method he had used to get rid of the lock on the back of his modified helmet must not have been easy to come by.

"How are you?" Temple asked kindly, ignoring the lack of a helmet. When Grif said nothing, he continued, "I promised you a chat. And I understand that the whole mess outside must have been a lot, so you probably have some—"

"You didn't let me talk!" Grif snapped. He stepped towards Temple, looking about ready to either jump at his throat or run. He eyed the weapons strapped to Temple. " _It was Kai!_ We could have figured it out, but you—"

Temple ignored the mention of _her name_ and backed away from him. He shook his head. "I already tried, Grif! Fucking hell, how many times do I need to say it: I already told them everything and they still attacked us! And they're the ones who didn't come back for you! You can't have forgotten _that_ of all things, have you?"

The last part gave him pause. Grif's eyes were red-rimmed and his breathing heavy, just a few shoves away from losing it. 

Temple had to control which way that breakdown would go. He glanced around and then, carefully, worked his way around Grif to scoop up the volleyball still abandoned in the back corner of the room. 

It had always been on the list of things to deal with, but he felt it couldn't wait any longer. He held the volleyball in one hand and felt his fingers dig into the thick material, then pointed its crinkled up tinfoil visor towards Grif.

"This… We already went through this," Temple said, gesturing at the volleyball. He tried to smile a little less. "Is this really what you miss? Being abandoned on that damned moon, by them, with nothing but this worthless piece of trash for company? That's what you want to go back to?"

Reminded of the maroon volleyball's existence, Grif's body stiffened. "No—"

"Then it's real simple!" With a swift movement Temple used his left hand to pull out a knife, flipping it around to point the hilt at Grif. His smile widened, not intentionally, and reminiscent of the way he had handed him the blue visored helmet he pushed the volleyball and the knife closer to him. 

Temple whispered, "Then you can destroy it."

Grif's brow twitched, varying levels of unease and annoyance flashing across his face. He began to shake his head slowly, but then Temple pressed the volleyball to his chest and forced him to reach up and take it.

Grif's finger dug into the volleyball, similar to how Temple had held it, but he was unwilling to look down at it. "Seriously?" he asked, even more defiance in this voice when he continued to stare at Temple. "That isn't…"

"The ball isn't a part of your problem?" Temple let out a harsh fit of laughter. "Grif! You can't even look at the damn thing; you're so broken it's—" He barely managed to stop himself from continuing, but the damage was already done.

Seeming to lose interest in Temple's snappish tone, Grif's eyes dropped down to the tinfoil face cradled in his arms. 

The knife remained in Temple's now shaking hand. He took a deep breath and placed it on the edge of the nearby table, purposefully inching it so that it would still remain closer to him than Grif's reach.

Hands free, Temple took a step back and gestured at Grif and then the knife, his fingers twitching when he fought back the urge to rip the volleyball out of his hands himself. "I told you you needed to let people go… Do it for yourself, if not for me. Let them all go."

But Grif continued to cling onto the volleyball and didn't seem to listen, now beginning to mutter to himself about how _that wasn't it_. Temple scowled, his disappointed expression making way for something utterly exasperated.

"Alright. Then give me back the ball? I can do it for you. It's really that simple," Temple tried again, inching towards him though still reigning back the worst of his impatience. "Trust me. Please."

Grif stuttered, but his hold on the volleyball only grew tighter at the coaxing. He whispered something about his sister, alive and back with the Reds and Blues, and that's when Temple's shoulders dropped. 

There was no point to being stubborn.

The Reds and Blues were one thing, but could he really muster up the patience to break Grif's re-awakened sense of hope now that _his sister_ had shown her face? 

Temple's eyes settled on Grif's still form. His patience had long since run out. 

All he wanted was to kill Kaikaina Grif for ruining this part of his game. And she wasn't the only one.

"This is it, huh." Temple sighed, feeling all bravado leave him in that one exhale of breath. He picked up the knife and turned towards the doorway where he could see a flash of color as someone tried to sneak by the room. "GENE!"

It took a moment for the maroon soldier to peek inside. When he did, Temple pointed at Grif with the knife, his voice neutral when he gave the order: 

"Take him to the back. Now."

Looking awake for the first time since being thrown in the room, Grif's mouth fell open and he took a short step towards Temple. "W-wait, what?" 

The icy gray eyes turned back to him. 

"Time's run out, my friend; you're about to kick the bucket; go six feet under; push up daisies; _meet your fucking maker—_ " 

The words cut short and Temple tilted his head, taking in the bruised face staring right back at him and obviously struggling to comprehend what he was saying. He couldn't stand it. 

Temple rushed forward and grabbed Grif by the throat, the knife pressed dangerously close to his jugular. 

Grif jolted in surprise and the volleyball dropped to the floor. Before he could struggle, he was being shoved back against the wall as if Temple didn't quite know what he wanted to do to him. 

With a loud bang, Grif's head snapped back and hit the wall. He grunted in pain, curling in on himself as blood from a cut trickled down his neck.

"I'm talking about killing you," Temple said. His free hand curled into a fist, the other continuing to tighten even further around the now bloodied knife's handle. 

When Grif made no sound other than a wince of pain, Temple hissed at him with a mix of disbelief and disgust: 

" _You fucking idiot._ " 

Looking down at the orange pile of worthless flesh, and flinching at the sight of blood, Temple began to pace around the small room. Normally he would have sneered at him, at how pathetic he was, but he was too angry to do anything but glower.

The only thought in Temple's mind was how he could have ever, even for a second, thought there could have been something more to him. But no, Dexter Grif was nothing. No one.

Dexter Grif was better off dead, the same as Daniel—

A hand took hold of Temple's wrist right as he, in a fit of rage, had dropped the knife and reached for his pistol instead. With a ragged breath, Temple turned his eyes at the blue visor on his side, Gene's hand letting go of him immediately when put in the receiving end of the death-glare.

"What?" Temple said before Gene could get a word out of his mouth. "You want to die, too?"

"Uhnm." Gene shifted on his feet, even the slightest movement of his injured leg causing his breath to hitch. "I–I don’t think we should kill him yet. The plan—”

" _I KNOW WHAT THE PLAN IS! IT'S MY FUCKING PLAN!_ " 

Temple had turned to fully face Gene, stepping forward to loom over him – all but forgetting Grif's existence. With a shift click, he released the pistol from its holster and pressed it under Gene's chin, pushing his head back with force.

Seconds ticked by.

To his credit, Gene pressed himself flat against the wall and kept his mouth shut for the time it took Temple to blink back to himself and lower the weapon. Another long moment later Temple took a step away from the two men he had backed against the wall.

"Fucking idiots," Temple said almost breathlessly, his expression made of teeth but nowhere near a smile. "Both of you." His eyes turned to Grif, who was still staring at him blankly, then snapped back at Gene. "You want him? Is that it?"

Gene said nothing and Temple nodded, reholstering the pistol with an unsteady hand. "Alright. Fine. You can have him: _just keep him the hell away from me_." 

With one more disgusted look back at Grif, Temple stomped out of the room. 

Once the Blue's footsteps were well out of range, Gene's body slumped. He tried to catch his breath and began to cough, then practically broke down with laughter the longer it took him to do so. 

Grif's eyes remained locked on the doorway that Temple had disappeared through, and he seemed unwilling to acknowledge Gene's presence. Now watching him, Gene snorted and pushed himself off the wall, taking a vaguely sauntering step towards him. 

With a voice that caused Grif to wince, Gene said, "Aren't we lucky?" He chuckled, seemingly to cover up for how much his voice was shaking, before adding, "I feel sorta lucky."

Staring past him, and still waiting for Temple to come back, Grif said nothing. Luck had nothing to do with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ria: I wanted to name the chapter "Ballsack", but hazk didn't allow the word "ball" in the title. Velhoni is picky like that. Anyway, now the real fun begins >:) Temple only gets idioms right when he's bloodthirsty.
> 
> hazk: Can you tell how much I enjoyed writing Temple this chapter? And Plan B is almost here! Exciting times! So no, no "balls" allowed to name something this momentous!
> 
> Ria: Balls.


	9. Three Hours Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know this isn't what I promised you, but think of it this way: after everything we've lost, it only took us a few months to rebuild to these heights! Now imagine what we can do once we are done with this… obstacle of ours. This is only the beginning.”

“It is done. The package is ready for delivery,” Temple read from the confirmation message, smiling to himself. 

The smile might have looked strained to the other three men in the room, but there was no denying the relief they all felt when they watched him read the words on the screen for himself. 

If they hadn't gotten everything done in time, they would have been screwed. Temple had made sure they were aware of that.

“And the rest's ready to be rigged up, as well!” Cronut said cheerfully, throwing his own pile of schematics on the boardroom's table. He tapped them pointedly. “As long as the delay Loco put together for them worked, all's good to go: I made sure Lorenzo has all the gear we need packed up and, the moment we land, we can prep it in no time!”

Temple studied the schematics before nodding.

“Yes, good. Good work, everyone!” His smile grew softer and he got up to his feet. “I know this isn't what I promised you, but think of it this way: after everything we've lost, it only took us a few months to rebuild to these heights! Now imagine what we can do once we are done with this… obstacle of ours. This is only the beginning.”

Cronut and Surge were excited for what would come next, while Buckey celebrated as if he had done anything to get them to this point. 

“Now,” Temple said with his arms raised to silence the chatter among his small crew. “I trust you all know our final destination, our time limit and your individual duties… Get on with it.”

Temple continued to flip through the schematics, and the Blue and two Reds didn't need to be told twice to leave him to it. Well, one Red didn’t.

“Sooo… What's up with you no longer getting busy with Grif?”

Temple breathed in and out through his nose without looking up. “Nothing's 'up'. The plan's where it needs to be and I'm done with him.”

Cronut didn't accept the answer, leaning over the table to force Temple to look at him.

“And here I thought you looked absolutely adorable together,” Cronut said with a deep sigh, his disappointment punctuated with a sorry shake of his head. “He could have been so good for you! Gotten you right out of your cobalt blue shell! Given you something new to focus on…”

Temple bristled and stood up. He tried to sidestep around Cronut, damn near desperate to get away from him, but the Red didn't let him get by without another taunt, “I took you for someone a bit more possessive, but you just let Gene get between you two? Talk about a plot twist!” 

Temple must have looked absolutely murderous because Cronut smirked and let him leave without another word after that. 

Once out of view, Temple hung his head in a moment of regret. He could have let Cronut go on to give himself an excuse to beat the shit out of _someone_ , but it was probably best to wait until the scheduled bloodbath.

Soon.

* * *

“My kneecap hurts so bad… How's your leg been treating you?”

Grif said nothing. He hadn't even heard the question, really, staring at an empty wall and focusing on the rumblings of the ship as it noticeably sped up to fly who knows where next. Further away from the Reds and Blues, no doubt. As it should.

After Temple had left the room, Gene had found and handed him a piece of cloth to stop the nick on his neck from bleeding. Grif had accepted the cloth, but he didn't want to listen to a word Gene had said since then. 

Grif didn't even want to look at him. He hated how the other Red hadn't bothered to take off his helmet despite the hours he had sat in the corner of his room and watched over him after Temple's outburst.

In one corner, a rambling maroon armor; in the other, the glare of a judgemental volleyball. That's what he got from being saved from the UNSC's missiles.

“You've had either Temple or Cronut for company the whole time you've been here, right? Must have been a blast—I feel sorry for you, man. I've been busy with the scheming so I haven’t had to see any of them much lately, but now with my knee busted by… Well, anyway. Thanks, I guess, for getting Temple to let me sit down for a while.”

The voice was slightly familiar, but the words weren't. Not only did Gene sound obnoxiously loud, he was annoying as hell.

“So what's your secret? To getting beaten around, abandoned on a moon and being picked up by a madman just for round two of the same old shit, I mean.” 

Grif couldn't stop his head from turning, to stare at the blue visor that stared right back at him. Gene's hand was to the side of his helmet and he tilted his head in a gesture Grif was familiar with from years of listening to his team's radio.

“I mean,” Gene repeated, his voice a pitch too high and ringing in Grif's ears, ”you got to have something going for you to catch Temple's eye. Other than the color. Or maybe you don't; from what I'm hearing, he's had enough of you. There's only so much nostalgia can do for a man, huh.”

Grif blinked at the visor and glanced at the volleyball, a part of his brain turning to overdrive to figure out if he was imagining the whole thing. 

The hand lowered. “You've pretty much outlived your usefulness,” the unmoving helmet said and drew Grif's eyes back to it, “but at least you get to spend the rest of the way with me. I'm pretty good company.”

“No. You're not,” Grif said sharply and found himself leaning back, gripping the edges of his bed. “I fucking hate your guts.”

The helmet twitched in a sharp laugh. 

“You don't even know me? At least give me a chance before you make up your damn mind.” Gene stood up and Grif shrunk back, although he quickly chose against going on the defensive.

“What's your problem?” Grif snapped and hurried on his feet, to challenge the lanky guy in maroon. He couldn't wait around to see what had set Gene off, after hours of the two of them waiting for Temple to come back. 

And wasn't that funny:

Grif had actually expected Temple to come back and give him another chance. Because, until now, Temple had always come back to see him. For another game. Eventually.

Gene snorted. “At least I'm not the one being rude: I've been trying to talk to you for hours and you haven't bothered to say a single word! What's _your_ problem? I'm not good enough for you?” 

Grif was swaying precariously. Although mostly healed by now, his left leg had fallen asleep in the long hours of sitting without bothering to move an inch. It tingled in warning: either he sat back down or it would take him down.

But Grif didn't listen, not to his leg or the bite in Gene's voice. “I didn't ask you to—!”

Grif's eyes widened when he saw Gene take the first, short step towards him, not because he hadn't been expecting it but because of the way the man had flicked his wrist. It was also familiar; he had seen the same move only hours ago.

In the time Grif had been ignoring Gene in his self loathing and shock, he had also ignored the most glaring detail of his small storage room. 

He hadn't noticed when Gene had picked up the knife Temple had dropped on the floor. Worse, he had forgotten all about its existence until this very moment, having not wanted to remember the feeling of the blade being held up against his neck.

And now it was coming straight for him. Again. 

With Temple, there had been shock and disbelief, but with Gene Grif automatically expected the worst. The moment he had seen the knife, he had raised his arms up in defense, but no strike came. 

There was laughter.

“Considering how badly I'm limping, you could have done so much better than that. Are you even trying? Wait, of course you're not; isn't that the whole point of your character?”

The laugh echoed in the small space, dripping with glee and mockery. It was familiar in the worst ways and wrong in all the others. 

Gene didn't sound angry, Grif thought absentmindedly. He lowered his arms only to see the knife being waved around a few feet from him. Gene had barely moved. He weighed the knife in his hand, ran its edge along the length of his gloves, and studied the blue of his visor as it reflected off its blade.

Grif's eyes darted over to the door.

“Cronut's saying Temple's done with you,” Gene said in a thoughtful voice, “and as long as you're back in your oh-so-important armor, they will be none the wiser if… Hm.”

There was curiosity brewing under the surface of his voice, the kind that made Grif almost call him a nerd. He managed to catch himself before he could by biting down on his tongue.

It ended with Grif almost biting his tongue in half.

The ship lurched, a speed bump in space, and Grif stumbled towards Gene. Although caught off guard by it, he took the momentum as a sign to rush for the door, shoving past Gene who groaned and tried to balance himself on his injured leg.

Gene had closed the door after Temple had left, but Grif knew for certain that he hadn't heard the familiar click of the lock. He could still get out and… 

And?

Before Grif's brain had time to figure out what he expected or wished or hoped or dreamed or knew the outcome of running to Temple to be like, the door was replaced by the view of the floor, rapidly closing in. 

His body crashed to the floor and he grunted. His full weight hitting the metal of the ship caused the few pieces of furniture in the storage to jump and rattle.

Grif groaned, but didn't stop moving. Or he wouldn't have stopped if Gene hadn't kicked him in the head.

“I didn't even have to trip you, fatass! You're no fun,” Gene cackled and kicked him even harder, which interrupted Grif's attempted crawl by forcing him to cover his head instead. “That's the point of you, isn't it? That's what makes you special? You're so easy to push around!”

Grif's couldn't speak because one of the kicks had hit him in the throat. The pain and the words kept muddling his thoughts further. 

There was no hate in Simmons' voice, only glee—familiar in the worst ways, wrong in all the others.

Grif cracked one eye open, about to look up at the blue visor standing above him when his line of sight was interrupted by a pile of crinkled up white and red and orange. He blinked to clear his eyes, taking in the volleyball Gene had dropped in front of his face.

“Temple couldn't force you to get rid of this thing… No idea what that was about, but” - Gene groaned and sat back down on his chair with great difficulty, blocking the door - “I'm guessing it's nothing that important for the plan?”

Reflexively, Grif reached out for the volleyball, the two different but same but wrong voices blurring into one in his ears. One of Gene's armored boots dropped down on Grif's fingers to stop him, but he didn't even feel it.

“He can't get too mad if I speed things up a bit, can he? But even if he does lose it… I'm done with it, you know? I'm done with this whole revenge, vindication, _whatever-the-hell of his_ ; what did it ever get me? I've been stuck with these people, serving a blue, even ordered to keep my mouth shut to not 'disturb' you, and it's all been because of Biff! _And I didn't even like Biff_!”

The jeer in Gene's voice had finally switched into the anger and hate that Grif had been waiting for, all of it pointed at him. Because of course it was. It had to be.

“I hate the color orange, too, it's not even a shade of red! Or a shade of blue! It's fucking _orange_ and it hurts my fucking eyes!”

Stomp and a stream of air that brushed a strand of hair off Grif's face. Simmons' head was flattened under the weight of the maroon boot.

“What's the big deal? What made Biff so special?!”

Another stomp and the volleyball, which had been struggling to regain some of its shape, lost even more of the life left in it. Grif's mind ignored the blue visor hovering above him, emotionless unlike the voice that it projected.

“Temple's tearing down the world just cause he's 'hurting' from a death that happened ages ago! So why's no one even been trying to find us! We've been missing for years, but at least we're still alive! What makes BIFF so special, worth so much TIME and EFFORT, when he's already _DEAD_?”

Stomp, stomp, stomp, _stomp_ , and there was nothing left of the tinfoil visor that Grif remembered so meticulously crafting. Iris felt like forever ago.

“And then there's you.”

Grif tore his eyes off the ruined tinfoil to finally look at the only maroon soldier left to keep him company. The blue visor stared back and Grif could see his own, bruised and bleeding face reflected on it. Grif looked furious.

“That Simmons guy really likes you, too… Can't see why, but it never needs to make sense with you orange wastes of space, does it?” 

The voice had dropped low, and the unfamiliar calm of it had made it easy for Grif to see the man it belonged to as who he really was. His fingers curled into fists against the cold metal floor, his left pressing deep into the hard fabric of the murdered volleyball. 

“I've made up my mind,” Grif mumbled.

“Oh?”

“I fucking hate your guts.”

The following kick to the face knocked him out cold.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ria: I asked hazk for Grif whump and she gave me that. true love. 
> 
> hazk: stomp <3
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments <3

**Author's Note:**

> As always, English is not our native language, and you can find us on tumblr as hazk and riathedreamer.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
